


The Fight

by thesubparpirate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Fighter Draco, Fluff, HP: EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Post-War, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 60,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8654905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesubparpirate/pseuds/thesubparpirate
Summary: Draco thought becoming a healer would be a good way to better himself. He even went to America for it. But his demons keep coming back to haunt him - or rather, Lucius does, plagued by an unpredictable illness that no one knows how to cure.Out of options, Draco turns to a last resort, one Auror ready-to-please with hair like a rat's nest and specs full of finger prints. He's just as grating as he ever was. Good thing Draco has a solid means of stress relief.As Lucius begins to get better, things just get worse for Draco. But he doesn't need Saint Potter to save him from anything.He'll save himself, just like he's always done.Won't he?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I already have most of the chapters done, so I'll update every few days!

1.

Draco saw his mother cry, and he wanted his father to die.

After all they’d been through, and Draco just wanted him to die.

What kind of a son wished that for his father? What kind of a person?

He had a sickness. It wasn’t his fault.

Knowing that didn’t make it any easier.

 

They knew Lucius had been getting bad. His mum had told Draco ages ago, right when he'd started university in the states. They knew it.

But there was a difference between knowing something and experiencing it.

They saw the signs. They knew he wasn’t himself. It was the sort of thing that had been building for years.

First he was withdrawn. He would sleep for ages, always tired. He would never get out of bed. They thought he was depressed. It would certainly make sense, considering. The threat of Azkaban and the Dementors. Being around the Dark Lord. Being wrong. Being shamed.

None of those, by themselves, would be easy to bear. Mixed together, that must have been what he was feeling. They couldn’t think of anything else.

A year went by, and he stopped talking. It was slow, but back and forth between the semesters Draco spent at college, Draco could see a difference. A big one. When his father looked at him before, his gaze was never blank. It was always full of something, whether it was pride, fear, worry, or anger. He always felt something. His eyes were often the only way to tell, raised with good Malfoy manners. He could school his expression into any mask he wanted, but his eyes always betrayed him.

Those eyes were empty when his father looked at him during that second year. Empty like a dead fish, mouth slack like he’d died mid-gasp trying to flop back into the water. When they talked to him, if they pressed him enough, they received a minute reaction for their trouble. A listless “no…”, a grunt, a shrug. As the snow melted and the hard ground was revealed, he stopped answering altogether.

Draco’s third year in college, his father started having tremors. Fits. Seizures, maybe. He would grab his thighs and quake, taking great heaving, wheezing breaths from in between clenched teeth. His empty eyes bulged out of their sockets, staring at nothing. He shook like an earthquake, rattling the china in the cabinet, the windows in their frames, the plates in their cupboard. Rattling their family’s already fragile and damaged sense of security.

They got bad enough that Narcissa was afraid she couldn’t take care of him just with the house elves. They tried to go to St Mungo’s, but the healers who were bitter and had seen the damage done in the war were uncaring. The ones who weren’t couldn’t figure out what had become of him. They speculated years of Dark Magic poisoned something in his mind, in his brain. Twisted it in such away to pervert it, make it dysfunctional, make it destructive.

There were no studies on the long lasting effects of a life devoted to Dark Magic, on the effects of whatever colluding so closely with a deluded half-human such as the Dark Lord entailed for his mental or physical well being. No studies on what to do when the presence of such toxic magic invaded a person’s mind, attacked their brain, and ruined it.

It was the not knowing that hurt the most. Knowing something was terribly, horribly wrong, and not knowing how to fix it. Having to stand and watch it happen.

Draco watched through all of the war. He had wanted to be done with it. But instead, here the fighting was again, and this time there was nothing to be done.

No one else could or would help him, and so they continued by themselves. It took its toll. Draco felt terrible for his mum when he had to leave for college at the start of the semester in his fourth year, but he was selfishly grateful for it, too. He couldn’t stand living in the Manor. Draco hated who he became while staying there and he hated that it reminded him of who he had become before, during the war. Draco hated it for the memories, the ghosts. Those which lived in the rooms, and that which lived in the dying, twitching creature that was his father.

His mother moved into a different bedroom. She couldn’t sleep with him having fits every few hours, rocking back and forth and hissing like the snake on his family’s ring through a locked jaw.

Draco was grateful she did this. If something had happened to her, he…Draco didn’t know. He didn’t know. He might have killed his father, if he had seen her hurt. He threatened to.

In front of his mother, he managed to keep his placid front up. Willing to serve his father, the useless sack of a human being he had become. But alone with him Draco was derisive, bitter, angry, spiteful. How dare he continue to put them through this torment when he had done more than enough to damage their family already. Lucius had led his family to destruction and now he was forcing them back again. Draco could not find the man he used to love in this person. He thought of him as something lesser. As a force, chaotic and uncaring and inhuman. And Draco hated him, a cold hatred that resided where his stomach used to be, a great void that covered the place in his heart his father used to have. He was so bitter. He was so angry.

_After all that’s happened, now he abandons me?_

Draco couldn’t bear to be in the same room as him. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to throw away his wand and hit him, knuckles to cheekbone. He wanted to go to the safe where they kept his father’s wand, taken and stowed away once they realized he hadn’t cast a spell in over six months, and use it against him. He wanted his father to suffer as he was making Draco suffer. As he was making Narcissa suffer. But he didn’t.

Draco helped his mother take care of him. They sat at the table and Narcissa and Draco made polite conversation while they tried to ignore Lucius shaking so violently and bent at such a vicious angle that his elegant cheekbone very nearly rubbed through his dinner. They tried to get used to the hissing noises that echoed through the hallways, tried to get used to the tinkling and shatter of broken dishware, china, windows, mirrors. 

It wasn’t something they could ever get used to.

But his mum told him she was fine. Acknowledging it made it more real, and so they didn’t talk about it. They pretended everything was normal. They carried on with their lives. Draco returned to America for his fourth year of study. And that was when his father tried to kill his mother.

-*- 

Draco called the only person he could think of. The only person who could help them. The only person who Draco knew without a doubt would help his mother, because of what she’d told him in the Floo, her tear-streaked face desperate and jarring to see. Draco had only seen his mother cry once before, after the trials, when her son was liberated from any and all punishment.

Saint Potter was the only one who Draco knew would help them. Not because they were deserving of it, but because he owed his mother a Life Debt. And even then he didn’t believe him until he saw the bruises on her neck, the ones he asked her to show him without glamour, please.

He was a trained Auror. He would know what to do. He would be able to do something more than just keeping him locked up in the dungeons as Draco had insisted, furious and terrified and screaming at the house elves the moment he had stepped out of the floo.

Draco made sure they made his father comfortable, but Draco didn’t go see him himself. He told himself it was because he was angry at him. And he was, seething with it, so irate he was seeing red. But he was also very, very scared. And it was that fear that truly kept him away. Fear of seeing his father, fear of seeing what he would do to him. If he tried to kill his wife in a psychotic rage, whom he adored, what would he do to his son, too weak to win the war, of whom he was ashamed?

 Draco healed the marks on his mother’s neck after that. Though  he was studying healing, he needed much more education before he could actually perform anything other than the most rudimentary of spells. Minor bruises and scrapes were fine, but his mum’s voice was still hoarse when she spoke, and the sound made him wince whenever he heard it.

Draco escorted him—the one, the Savior, Saint Potter—to the dungeons. He didn’t want his mum to have to go.

“Hello,” Harry said to him warily as he greeted him at the door, looking the same as usual with his wild hair, square jaw, and spectacles. He looked better, actually, than Draco remembered him. Apparently the years after the war had treated him well.

Draco nodded tersely in return. He had no energy for pleasantries, no brainpower for insults.  If Potter was here, he was to help them, and that was that. Draco did not like asking for his help. He did not like it at all. But he liked even less the thought of his mother being injured again.

Draco would protect her. Even if it meant swallowing every ounce of pride he had, Draco would protect her. He would do anything to make sure she was safe. Every time he doubted it, her crumpled, defeated expression streaked through the back of his eyelids, and his conviction was solidified.

When he began descending the staircase to the dungeons, Potter hesitated. A number of indiscernible emotions flitted across his face, and Draco could tell he was reliving memories from a war passed not long enough ago.

“Life debt,” Draco softly reminded him. He was their only hope. He couldn’t have him running off now.

Harry stared at him very intensely, thick brows drawn down like in all his photos in the papers. Eventually, he nodded.

Lucius was asleep, his back to them, covered in lavish, plush blankets. He was sleeping on an extra mattress, curtains and tapestries strung around the cell to keep the draft out, small bulbs of light strung around the ceiling of the small square so he could see. The house elves were smart enough not to give him any cutlery. What food he ate, when he ate at all, he ate with his hands. It seemed barbaric and insensitive, but Draco and Narcissa were afraid of giving him something that could be used against them.

“He doesn’t look very threatening,” Harry said doubtfully, a line forming between his eyebrows.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Draco spat at him venomously. After so many people doubting them at the hospital, so many of his professors not understanding his distress, and so many of his acquaintances saying the wrong thing, trying to reach out for help again—and to such a degrading source—made him even more snappish and irritable than usual.

“I can put wards on the cell,” Harry relented eventually, after a period of reluctant silence and biting his lip to hold in a retort. “To make sure he doesn’t hurt you, your mother, or one of the elves when you’re trying to interact with him.”

Draco nodded stiffly. He couldn’t bring himself to thank him.

The ward’s alarm went off two days later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where that title up above comes into play. Warnings for depictions of violence and injury, though only a few are anything more than extremely vague.

2.

It was his third year of college, right at the start of the second semester, that Draco started fighting.

His father’s tremors had started, but they weren’t very frequent. They were upsetting and concerning, but nowhere near the caliber they would become.

Draco didn’t like leaving his mum alone to care for him with the house elves. But he needed to continue his studies. He had to make something of himself, he thought. He had let them down for so long, he had to prove to them that he could do something useful.

He had to prove to himself that he could be successful. That he could be his own person. _And yet I’m still a coward_.

He was too afraid to give that chance of worthiness up to do something much more honorable. He wouldn’t give up his freedom to stay at home and take care of this uncaring, parasitic force that just siphoned away any chance at their happiness. And that’s what ate away at him. More so than anything else, he was still so selfish.

Draco couldn’t even help the one person who always sacrificed to help him.

When he first heard the noises, the yelling, the pulse of feet stomping on the ground and the dull thwack of flesh hitting flesh, he vomited. The tang of blood permeated the air, mixed with the pungent scent of sweat and stale bodies. People walked around him. Someone shouldered him to the ground, and Draco twisted as he fell, narrowly avoiding landing in his own sick. His shoulder hit the concrete with a tooth-rattling thud, but he was up quick, before he could be stepped on, and he fled quicker. Draco had a panic attack then, on the street in the ghetto outside a run-down Muggle corner store with lights missing from its sign.

And then he went back the next night.

And the next.

And the next.

He made it through the doorway. He made it through the crowd. He made it to the edge of the ring.

The ring had been sectioned off by worn, fraying ropes. Two men grappled for purchase and fought for victory within it. One had a lump the size of an egg above a blackening eye. The other was limping. They circled each other like wild beasts, their eyes never leaving their opponent.

The one with the black eye got in a lucky shot a foot away from Draco. His opponent’s bloodstained teeth skittered along the concrete like fallen tic-tacs.

Draco lay awake that night, listening to his breathing, watching them fall again and again.

He watched men get beaten. He watched men win. He watched men yell and scream, push and shove and call for blood. It was wild and untamed and the fury of a crowd buoying emotions higher and higher, to a fever pitch. And he stood alone in this crowd, silent and still, unable to participate but unable to leave.

It reminded him of the war. He thought that was why he kept coming. Draco deserved to be reminded. Deserved to remember he was unfinished business. Deserved to remember that he should never have had this freedom he clung so tightly to.

He couldn’t run away from it.

This was the reason his father lost himself. This was the reason his mum had to suffer. This heady, intoxicating bloodlust. This call for cruelty. This was the reason his life had gone to shit. And like before, like always, Draco stood impassive, paralyzed by fear and indecision, unable to make a decision, just waiting for something to happen.

He learned how to knit skin, muscle, and bone together in the day, during his classes. He watched people tear it all apart at night. He learned how to ease suffering, and he learned that it took no one special to give it out.           

The fights replayed on his darkened ceiling at night into the lightening hours of the morning.

He couldn’t name what compelled him to step into the ring. Stupidity. Recklessness. Masochism. But certainly not cowardice, which is what Draco had let rule him for so long.

He needed to change that, even if it wasn’t by facing his father. He felt the need gnawing at his insides, hungry and ruthless. He had to give in, even if it got him hurt, even if it got him killed. A small part of him wanted it to die; a small part of him believed he deserved it.  

Draco hadn’t prepared himself for the fight. He hadn’t known that he was going to finally step into the ring that night when he walked into the crowd. Draco had just watched a man crack his skull on the floor, blood spilling from the crown of his head into his face. The image was a relic of the war. Of all the people he’d watched tortured by his aunt Bella. Tortured by him.

He was stepping under the rope before he knew what he was doing. In jeans and his college hoodie, standing in the corner, stepping over the blood smeared on the floor. The fighter in the ring wore a red-spattered wife beater and a snarl meaner than the most acidic sneer Draco could ever hope to put on his face.

“Get out, moron!” he yelled at him.

Draco couldn’t find the air to speak. He stared at him, lightheaded, unsure of what he was doing. The room felt like it was spinning. The dim light was too bright.

The fighter got in his face. “Get out!” Draco could feel his spit spatter his face, his breath sour in his nostrils. 

The muscles tightened in his lips. His jaw clenched. His vision narrowed and focused.

Draco spat in his face.

Draco remembered seeing his fist, but not getting hit.

-*- 

He went every week. Sometimes many times.

His first fights gave him ample opportunities to practice his healing. Sometimes Draco fixed himself right away, the moment he got back to his flat. If it was bad enough, if it was visible. The broken fingers. The broken nose. The black eyes.

Sometimes he left the bruises. The ones no one could see. The ones he could hide. The ones that wouldn’t make people ask questions.

He didn’t know why. Maybe he thought he deserved them, like he deserved to keep going to the ring, like he deserved to be reminded.

He started looking forward to the fights, long before he was any good. He wanted to get hit. He wanted someone to punch him. He wanted someone to beat the shit out of him. Physical pain was so much easier to deal with than the other sorts.

And he got what he wanted. He got it a lot.

But he was no longer passive. He was involved, and he was acting like it. And it was a drug.

He started fighting back. His punches were weak and his kicks were feeble. He lost almost every fight. But he started fighting back, and that’s what mattered.

He started picking himself up. He started taking swings. He didn’t care if he bruised his knuckles on someone else’s face—it felt good to finally hit something and _mean_ it. To have it be his own decision, autonomously, even if he knew he was going to lose. He was fighting for _himself_ , for the first time ever.

He was doing this because he wanted to.

He was hurting someone else, but they were hurting him back. He didn’t have all the power; he wasn’t backing someone with all the influence. The uncertainty was like a strong shot of vodka. It twisted his insides and burned like fire. And he kept coming back.

None of the Americans at his college knew who Draco was. They knew Saint Potter, and they knew the Dark Lord, but they didn’t know any of the minor players. So he made some friends. Acquaintances, more like. He sometimes ate meals with them. Nothing lavish, because they were students. But he stopped after one of them noticed the bruises on his torso as he reached into a cabinet and his shirt rode up. The other student, also a healer in training, made a big fuss. He asked him, in that simpering, pacifying tone of voice that Draco found intolerable, why he kept the marks. He asked him if someone was abusing him, if someone was forcing him to keep them. This student, who barely knew him, he got angry. He got righteous. But Draco made him swear he’d keep quiet. Draco postured, he threatened, he was mean. He kicked him out. They never made plans with again, though the other student tried to seek him out all through the semester after that, trying to convince him to talk to someone, to see someone, to seek help—offering to help him himself.

He was foolish. An optimistic fool who knew nothing. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t have thought Draco was so deserving of righteous anger, of protection.

Draco got good at throwing punches.  


When the alarm sounded the first time, it was because Lucius lunged at his favorite house elf. She managed to apparate away before anything happened, landing in the kitchens, shaken and teary but otherwise unscathed. In watery hiccups she tried to tell them what happened, trembling with effort from not hurting herself, even after Draco reassured her she did nothing wrong.

His mum was the picture of stony grace, the lines of her face elegant and hard as rock. Saint Potter didn’t know what to do, finally met with something closer to--yet not quite reaching--the full weight of the situation.

“I’ll see if I can contact someone,” he said worriedly. “Hermione might know somebody. She’s read books on this, I’m sure—she’s read books on everything.”

Draco searched his face, then nodded. Of course Saint Potter would try before running out. Out of everyone they asked, he had the most reason to hate them, and yet he was trying the hardest. He would probably find someone, too.

Harry looked like he expected him to say something more, other than the cordial greeting and the tired, monosyllabic answers to his questions. Draco didn’t. He left.

He heard his mum crying that night, shut in her bedroom alone.

He paused at her door and waited a few beats, taking care to be quiet and not to disturb her. Then he padded softly to his quarters.

He locked the door.

Turned out the lights.

And flooed to the ring.

 


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Harry found someone. A friend of Hermione’s. A man working in magical neuropsychology, he said.

Draco greeted them both, standing in the doorway. His mum was pacing near the cellar door.

“I’ve never heard of that field before,” Draco said cordially, trying not to be too guarded with the new man, a small, balding fellow with an outdated but once stylish suit on.

“It’s quite a recent development,” he responded eagerly. “A growing field. Heavens knows, I can’t imagine why it’s taken us so long.”

Draco made a noncommittal noise and held the door for them. They would see how effective this growing field was when they managed to heal his father.

Harry turned his searching gaze to him as he walked in, like a spotlight. But it was there one moment, gone the next, and Draco felt a bit dazed, a bit as though he had imagined it.

“Can I help you, Potter?” he asked blandly, unable to help the tilt in his right eyebrow.

Harry opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of what he wanted to say. “Later,” he said instead. “After.”

That piqued his interest. He had never known Saint Potter to hold his tongue.

He adjusted the glamours on his face surreptitiously. He had healed the bruises under his eyes, but he hadn’t had time to slip away before his broken nose had swelled, and though it was no longer broken, it was taking quite a while to go down. The skin on his face was too delicate for the cold salves he usually used, so it was just a matter of waiting. Draco had very nearly won the fight the night before. Of late, he hadn’t just been getting pummeled, like he used to. He could put up a good fight. If he kept at it, he figured he might actually stand a chance at winning.

The new man, whose name had been told to him but Draco promptly forgot, was led to the dungeons with his mum in the lead and Harry in the rear, behind him. His father slept like he usually did when he wasn’t violent. The cell door was padlocked shut. After terrifying Wilba, Draco had transfigured a slot towards the bottom, through which they could push his meals. Harry’s eyes locked on the slot and, peculiarly, his face seemed to turn a rather green shade, coming valiantly close to matching that of his irises.

“Do you mind if I run some diagnostic tests on him?” the funny little man asked. “If he stays still like this, they shouldn’t take more than an hour at most.”

Draco and Narcissa nodded. Harry shifted on his feet.

After a few minutes, Narcissa disappeared upstairs with a vague excuse about putting tea on. Harry, sufficiently confident in the bars of the cell and the wards around it to leave the little man to his job, asked if Draco would walk back up with him.

He could hear his mum out in the garden, pacing, clearing her head and clutching a cup of tea to her chest. Harry walked them over to one of the front rooms and spoke to him quietly.

“If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll ask your mother as well,” he began, “but I think it would be good to scan and ward the Manor. If these problems are due to dark magic, Hermione said that if there are still dark artifacts or their echo in his environment, there’s a chance they could be contributing to his mental state.”

“The Ministry has already seized any dark artifacts here,” Draco said tiredly. “And of course there’s an echo of it. The Dark Lord lived in the wing above mine. There’s darkness embedded in this house like rot.”

“You should bring him to Saint Mungo’s.”

“You think we haven’t tried? I’d rather have my father in a cushy ward than a dungeon.”

“I can put a word in for him.”

Draco sneered. “We don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity. Like you’ve said, it’s a life debt.”

“It’s not done. I’m a Malfoy, Potter. You’ve done your part. You’ve found the specialist. You can go now—you no longer need to be involved.”

Harry was biting his lip, trying not to say something. “At least let me ward the house.”

“What will that do?”

“It will immediately alert an Auror if anyone is trying to seriously injure someone in the Manor, and it will keep more dark artifacts from being brought in.”

“Nobody is bringing dark artifacts into this home, Potter.”

“It’s just a precaution.”

Draco sighed, still offended, but trying to look through it for his father’s sake. “Will it give the alert regardless of intent?”

Potter cocked his head, that line between his eyebrows deepening. “Why?”

“He doesn’t mean to harm us,” Draco said. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Whether or not Harry believed it, he didn’t say. Draco was glad. It was a truth that he needed to be completely sure of, for his own sanity.

“I can modify them to send the alarm if anyone is under threat of or is seriously injured on the premises instead.”

“That would work better. Would it send the alarm to just any Auror?” If it was sent to anyone else but noble Saint Potty, Draco knew they wouldn’t respond.

“I’ll have it sent to me directly.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully, slowly, mulling the plan over for flaws. “Go over it with Mother. It’s her house more than mine. I have no opposition to it.”

Harry nodded and headed off to the garden. Draco stared at the empty fireplace and tried not to think of how cold it was in this house of his, even when the curtains were drawn and the fire was lit. Maybe the echoes affected more than just his father.

Harry talked with Narcissa for a very long time. Draco didn’t hear him leave.

-*- 

Draco was going to win this fight.

This one, Draco could feel it. He could feel it like he could feel the blood singing in his veins, his heart pounding in his chest. Draco could see it in the faltering step of his opponent, dragging more and more each time their bodies collided. He had a split lip and a bruise across his cheek, but the other man's nose was leaking furiously and dak bruises were pooling under his eyes. His arms were heavy, but so were his opponent’s, and the man’s fists fell lower and lower with every step. The frenzy of the crowd was nothing but white noise to his intense concentration. For once, Draco felt focused. For once he felt in control. Time seemed to slow down. He saw an in; a kneecap turned at just the right angle to strike. Draco had a shot. He was going to win.

And then he saw him, locked in a howling crush of people. His face just barely illuminated by the yellow overhead lamp. His glasses reflecting the light, his brow drawn down, his square jaw clenched.

Draco saw him and, confused, he hesitated.

Never hesitate in the ring.

-*- 

Harry found him in an alley out back, pressing a ball of ratty towels to his face, trying to staunch the bleeding before he went home. The first time, Draco hadn’t done that, and blood took quite a strong Scourgify to remove from rugs. His entire room smelled vaguely burnt for weeks after.

“What is this?” Harry asked him, at the same time Draco said, “What are you doing here?”

Harry ran his hands through his hair. “Your mother’s worried about you,” he said. “She asked me to track your location, make sure you weren’t getting into bad business. Looks like she was right to worry.”

“My life is none of your concern, Potter.”

“I owe her a life debt, Draco .”

Draco stopped and stared at him, eyes wide, jaw clenched.  “What did you call me?”

“Your name,” Harry said, his expression resolute. “Look, the war is over, this feud we have—“

“You have no _right_ ,” he hissed, offended and affronted. “Your debt is repaid. You saved my life when you defended him in the trials. All is fair, you owe us nothing. Now get out of our lives.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“Only because of your _bloody_ sense of _honor_ ,” Draco replied scathingly, accidentally spitting blood as he talked. If Potter wouldn’t accept those terms, that meant not only would he continue to be insufferable, but that Draco had just admitted to owing him a debt. And he couldn’t deal with that. He couldn’t owe him, or anyone, anything anymore. It just wasn’t done. Not for him. 

“I can fix that,” Harry said hesitantly, motioning to his lip and tactlessly changing the subject. “I had to go through basic healing instruction—all Aurors do.”

“It’s what I’m in school for, Potter.” Draco turned his back to him, tossing the stained rag on the ground and preparing to apparate. “Healing, I mean. I can do it myself. Leave me alone.”

“I should tell Narcissa, you know,” Harry said, a bit apologetically.

Draco whirled around and got right up in his face, glaring straight into his bespectacled eyes. Since Hogwarts he had grown considerably, and sadly Draco couldn’t use his height to his advantage any longer, though he managed somehow to look down his nose at him anyway.

“You will do _no such thing_.”

“She asked me to follow you. She’s why I’m here. She didn’t trust one of the House Elves, knowing you could order them to keep quiet. And, as you’ve just made clear, she’s the one I owe the debt to, not you.” His expression was determined, his shoulders set, eyes daring him to challenge him.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to refrain from punching the Savior. He may have escaped Azkaban by the skin of his teeth after the trials, but he was fairly certain assaulting an Auror, and the Golden Boy at that, would land him there immediately. “She does not need to worry about me.”

“She does anyway.”

“Then don’t confirm it and make her worry more.”

“Draco , you know I can’t—”

“Don’t say my _name_!” Draco yelled, his temper pulled too taut. _I need a drink_ , he thought miserably, raking his hands through his hair.

Harry raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I just…she knows something is wrong. You know how smart she is. She lied to Voldemort’s face, she isn’t afraid of doing what she thinks she needs to in order to protect you, even if you don’t agree.”

Draco grudgingly admitted that he had a point. “Fine,” he snipped. “Then make up an excuse.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell her you’re with me,” Draco said, waving his hand. “Tell her you found me drinking, or abusing potions, or doing those abhorrent Muggle drugs or something. Tell her you’re taking me to some blasted, bloody meeting or something, I don’t care.”

“And you’ll go here instead?”

Draco scowled. “My, Potter, after such a lovely relationship we’ve had, I would have thought you’d relish the chance to see me get my face beat in.”

“It’s not right,” Harry said, looking away for the first time since the beginning of their conversation. “None of this.”

“What’s not right,” Draco said, biting his words, his voice rising again, “is the wreck of a man my father is. What’s not _right_ is him trying to _kill_ my mother—what’s not right is someone I used to look up to has become a boggart in my own house. You look at him and you tell me what’s right, Potter. Until then, I’m going to keep fighting. Even if you tell her, I’m not going to stop. You’d be doing nothing but hurting her more.”

“I still have to do something,” he said adamantly. “I promised her.”

Draco scoffed. “You can’t be serious. I’ve just given you an out, I know you hate me—”

“Narcissa would flay me alive if anything happened to you after I told her you were fine.”

“If she sees anything—which she won’t—I can just tell her I got roughed up on Diagon. She’ll believe that. It nearly happens often enough, now that our name has been slandered across every newspaper in existence.”

He crossed his arms. “You won’t be able to tell her that if you get knocked out and end up in some Muggle alley.”

“I won’t get knocked out.”

“Really? Because it looked like you almost did, just now.”

Draco sniffed, regretting it instantly as his nose began to drip blood once again. “I would have won if you hadn’t distracted me.”

“How did I distract you?”

“By existing, you prat. You can’t come here. You can’t follow me. I’m not going to tell you when I’m going.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” He fished a small key out of his pocket, tapping his wand to it. It glowed faintly yellow before returning to its original silver color. “Have this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s…not a portkey, exactly. I have one like it. If you’re in trouble, just grab it, and mine will heat up. Once I touch it, it’ll send me straight to you.”

“How noble,” Draco scoffed. “Truly, I’m touched. Get out of my face, Potter, I don’t need your pity.” Draco tried to shoulder past him, nearly knocking him over. But Harry stayed in his way, still holding out his hand.

“Take it.”

“I won’t use it.”

“Whatever. Just take it anyway.”

Draco put on his best scowl and snatched the key out of his hand, shoving it in his pocket and striding away. Harry didn’t say anything—he just watched him apparate away.

_Bloody prat._

-*- 

It seemed as though the funny little man knew what he was doing. He said he was optimistic. He told them he might know a few potential drugs that would help. Lucius would only have to take sixteen different pills, three times a day, with copious amounts of food to prevent them from burning ulcers into his stomach lining. He said this as though it would be easy. And all at a fee of only about a quarter of their already diminished inheritance.

The ring gave money to the victors. People liked fighting Draco because they knew it would be an easy win. But he needed to change this. He wouldn’t let his family be driven to ruin just because his father had become a monster.

 He picked an opponent, a new fighter, one he thought he could beat. And he did. Pulse pounding when the final strike landed, his opponent on the ground, Draco’s thighs straddling him, pinning his arms to his torso, Draco’s hands braced and bringing down his left elbow to _crunch_ the other man’s nose, his own silence emphasized by a howl of agony from the man on the ground. The roar of his pulse and the shouts and jeers of the crowd were heavy in his ears.

For the first time after many months, he collected his winnings with grim determination and a set jaw. If he was going to do this, he was finally going to do it right.

He started healing all his bruises, all his cuts and scrapes and broken bones. He had a purpose now. He couldn’t bother with injuries, now that he had a purpose. He was going to ensure that, even if they couldn’t be wealthy again, his mother would live in comfort. His mother would never have to work a day in her life again. His mother wouldn’t have to be subjected to the hatred other wizards and witches had for his family. She would no longer have to suffer, and she wouldn’t have to be ashamed. He wanted to give this to her.

He couldn’t do this yet through legal means. The local hospitals accepted talented students to intern and work nights, but that paid in course credit rather than currency, and Draco needed money. He refused to take a job as a waiter or clerk—his pride could only bend so far, and he wouldn’t serve muggles. So that left him with getting the shit beat out of him by them, instead. And giving it back. Funny, when he thought about it. Fitting.

He kept fighting. He kept winning. Until, that is, someone noticed.

-*- 

Five hundred dollars in one night. He wasn’t so foolish as to count it right there. This game was crooked, to be sure, but they wouldn’t get fighters if they didn’t shell out the cash they were owed.

He snuck out of the locker room and slunk to the back alley, ignoring the sting in his knuckles as he used his hands, preparing to apparate home. He really needed a drink.

“You fought good tonight,” he heard a man say to him as he walked by, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette clamped in his stubby fingers. Draco grunted in response, not bothered enough to form words.

“I know a man who’s looking for fighters like you,” the man continued as Draco walked. “He’s a good sponsor. Big money.”

“Not interested,” Draco replied curtly, and melted into the shadows.

-*- 

The next time he fought, it was the same man who confronted him, this time outside the locker room. His beady eyes were sharper than before, absolutely stinking of cigarettes, shaped like a thumb and much shorter than Draco, but built enough to be intimidating nonetheless.

“My boss doesn’t like to be ignored,” he rasped, blowing smoke from his nose. “You’d do best to listen, or he might get a bit irritable.”

“Let him,” Draco spat, not in the mood to be threatened by a _muggle_ , of all things. He got beat up and bloodied because he chose to, but with his wand, he could apparate away whenever he needed to. Or so he thought.

-*- 

The third time, he didn’t see the man. He just heard a footstep behind him, and then everything went black as his head hit the brick wall.


	4. Chapter 4

4\. 

 

Draco groaned. His head was pounding, especially the left side, feeling tight and hot and radiating pain. His tongue felt fuzzy. Alarm shot through him as he noticed that whether his eyes were open or not, everything was black. Was he—he wasn’t—

He struggled to reach his face, but found his hands were bound behind his back. Immediately, his situation came racing back to him. The man. The alley. The wall.

He gently turned his head and could feel fabric settling around his face and neck. A bag. Not blind, just a bag. He was sitting on the floor propped up against a cold, hard wall. He heard noises around him, too loud and sharp in his ears, and they made him wince. His head throbbed.

“He’s awake?” The shuffling sounds continued. Draco figured there had to be at least two people near him. He forced himself to swallow his panic, to shove it away like he did in the fights. He willed himself to become numb.

“Yeah, he’s awake.”

The bag was pulled roughly from his head, the bright light from the overhead piercing his eyes. He screwed up his face against it, crying out when his hair was pulled and his face was tugged upwards, some of the crusted blood flaking away.

“My boss doesn’t take well to being ignored,” the alley man said. Draco scowled at him, but with his eyes tearing up from the sudden light and pain, he wasn’t sure he gave off the desired effect.

“I don’t take well to being tied up,” he retorted, his teeth clenched and bared to stop them from chattering. If it made him look angry, good; every muscle in his body taut with fear. The man dropped his head and shoved him back against the wall roughly. Draco could practically hear his teeth crumbling, trying to keep himself from yelling again. He refused to look weak in front of these people, to give them any more than they already had.

He was in some sort of warehouse, probably one close to the ring. Nobody else was there. Their voices echoed across the walls. If he was still in the same part of town he suspected, nobody would come to help him.

The cigarette man had with him a friend who looked like he’d had his nose pounded in more than a few times. His hair was shorn close to his scalp, and he had mean, thin lips. “Now what sort of a fighter carries around a stick taped to his leg?” he asked, and Draco’s eyes locked on his wand, the length of hawthorn he’d carried since he was eleven, clutched in the other man’s grasp. “Never seen a piece like that before. Or is it a little good luck charm?”

“Fuck you,” Draco spat. He couldn’t let them see how much his wand meant to him. He should have never gotten himself involved. He should have never started to win. “Give it back.”

The man _tsked_. “Moody.” He stood over him. “You’re in no position to be making demands.”

“What do you want?” Draco growled, trying to shift surreptitiously. The key was still in the pocket of his sweats. Despite what he’d said to Harry, he carried it with him. Be it for his mother’s peace of mind, be it for his own, he didn’t want to think about it. He could feel it digging into his leg. If only he could get it _out_.

“We want you to lose.”

Draco stopped squirming and looked at them incredulously. “What?”

“You’ve been getting lucky,” the cigarette man said. “Winning some fights. But you’re not good enough to _compete_ —You’re not supposed to be here. You’re just some rich bitch who wanted to see how the other side live, walking into the ring with your fucking university sweatshirt on. With that swotty accent of yours. Either get the hell outta here, or lose. You’re throwing off the bets for the real fighters.”

“I can’t very well ‘get outta here’ tied up like this.” Though he was paying attention, Draco’s eyes were still fixed on the man with his wand. He could take insults. Hell, he knew he wasn’t much different from what this bastard was describing. Except he had a wand. He had magic. If only he could get it back, or get to Potter.

“You snotty little—” The man took a step. Draco’s knee jerked. The key fell out, and he palmed it.

One second. One heartbeat. Harry didn’t come. Draco got kicked in the ribs.

Two seconds. He was keeled over, coughing, trying not to be sick on himself, trying to get away from the other man.

Three seconds. A twist, a jolt, and Harry was there, looking confused and surprised to be where he was. His eyes locked on Draco, curled on the floor.

“Stupefy!” he yelled once, twice. And it was over like that.

“Dra—” Harry started, but Draco interrupted him.

“My wand, get me my wand!” he yelled, kicking out at the prone man’s arm which had fallen over him, trying to wriggle his way to a standing position. Harry grabbed the length of hawthorn out from the second stunned man’s grasp, shooting a quick releasing spell over his shoulder at Draco, who immediately scrambled next to him. He made to grab the wand, but before he could, Harry gripped his upper arm, and they twisted away.

-*- 

 “Oh, god,” Draco groaned, sinking to the floor of Harry’s kitchen and clutching his stomach. Alarmed, Harry ran to the wastebin and pushed it in front of him. Holding it with shaking fingers, Draco breathed deeply for a minute or two, kneeling on the floor. He would not vomit in front of Harry Potter. He _would not_.

Once his stomach was a bit calmer and his head stopped spinning, he felt his face heat under Harry’s gaze, hating that he’d had to use the prat to get him out of such a nasty situation, hating being saved _again_ , hating that he looked so weak in front of him.

He took a deep breath and stood. “Give me my wand back,” Draco growled.

Harry wordlessly let him snatch it out of his outstretched hand, the expression on his face cautious. He watched Draco spin and try to apparate, failing to do anything but look ridiculous. Draco took a clumsy step, looked around, and blinked at Harry with a hand pressed hard to his stomach. “Why can’t I leave?” he demanded.

“My flat is warded,” Harry explained. “I’m the only one who can apparate in or out of it, with a few exceptions.”

“Where’s the door, then?” Draco demanded, starting off across the kitchen, where they’d apparated into, and through the living room. Harry’s mouth twitched; he was headed for the door to the closet.

“I’ve locked it,” Harry explained. “Very complicated charm. _Alohomora_ won’t do much. You really should stop moving about.”

“So, what?” Draco snapped, turning back to him and wincing slightly, his ribs, head and nausea making themselves known, becoming all the more angry for it. “You’ve rescued me from being someone else’s prisoner just so I can be yours?”

“No,” Harry said, trying to retain his patience. Draco certainly wasn’t acting very grateful to be out of whatever situation Harry had just freed him from. “I’ve brought you here because it’s safer, and you’ve obviously gotten yourself involved in something unsavory. If I’m personally investing in your family, I’d like to know what’s going on, for the sake of my reputation and the sake of my job, say nothing about the debt. I can’t support anything illegal. On top of that, you might have a concussion, and if you do, you shouldn’t be apparating anywhere. You’ll splinch yourself.”

 “How did you apparate us here?” Draco asked tiredly, deflating slightly but still angry. Now that his head had been mentioned again, it throbbed harshly. “You don’t have a flat in America.”

“No,” Harry said cautiously. “But I have clearance to apparate very long distances due to the case I’m working on. Ministry clearance.”

“To go all the way to America?” Draco scowled at him. “How is that even possible? No one should be able to apparate that far.”

“Well, I don’t have clearance that far,” Harry said sheepishly. “But Kingsley doesn’t need to know that.”

“Alright.” Draco knew Potter was avoiding his first question, but he was in too much pain to care. “Well, then, let me use your floo. I’ll take care of myself when I get back to my wing in the Manor.”

“You’ll vomit all over the fireplace if you do. Just sit down, I’m not that terrible with healing.”

“I can take care of myself,” Draco said primly, trying and failing to look intimidating with blood crusted in his hair and hunched over from the bruise in his ribs. “I’m a healer. I’m fine.”

Harry sighed, ignoring that last bit. “I know you can, but, just let me do the test on you, alright? A concussion test? If you’re fine, I’ll let you go on your merry way, I promise.”

Draco grumbled but, despite his request to use the floo, his head was spinning and he didn’t fancy the rest of him joining it in that anytime soon. “I’m fine,” he repeated, though his voice was fainter than he would have liked. “I just need a sit and a drink.”

“You can sit and have some water, I’ll get it for you,” Harry said, and Draco perched himself awkwardly on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, still obviously uncomfortable, though too distracted by his headache to be as prickly as he had been a few seconds ago.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Harry muttered, raising his wand and his pointer finger in front of Draco’s face. “Look at my left index finger, would you? I need to check—”

“My eyes, yes, I figured as much,” Draco interrupted impatiently, but complied. Though his right pupil dilated with the light, his left did not.

“ _Nox_ , “ Harry muttered, and stowed his wand. “What’s your birthday?”

Draco answered.

“Do you know how old you are?”

“Obviously,” Draco scoffed. “I’m…I’m…” he trailed off, alarmingly unable to remember.

“You’ve a concussion, a pretty bad one I’d say. Stay there, I’ll get something for your head.”

“I’m fine,” Draco protested fiercely, but his voice was soft. He didn’t like that Saint Potter was trying to take care of him. Why was it always him? Why was he just so damned _noble_ and why couldn’t he just leave good enough _alone_ , he’d already paid his dues, he didn’t need to be hanging around just because Narcissa asked him, he didn’t need to come and _save_ Draco _again_ but he _had_ and it was all too much.

When Harry came back to the kitchen holding a small bottle of potion and a first-aid kit, he was met with Draco was standing at the doorway. “I can take it,” he said, holding out his hands. “As long as I have a mirror, I’ll clean myself up.”

Harry opened his mouth to continue their tired argument, but something wary and fragile flitted across Draco’s face, and it made him keep quiet. Draco looked frustrated and exhausted and very close to some sort of meltdown, and he very obviously wanted time to himself, away from others. “Alright,” Harry conceded. _At least he’s not trying to go off by himself while he’s hurt anymore._

Draco pushed past him, and the door shut quickly after, directly in his face.

“I’ll make some tea,” Harry said conversationally to the door after recovering from the surprise of it being there. “I started dinner before you called. You should have some food, even though you won’t feel like eating – that concussion remedy is very strong, and you shouldn’t travel after taking it for a few hours.” He smiled. “My cooking isn’t gourmet, but it’s not too bad, I promise.”

Draco was sitting on the side of the bath, elbows on knees and his head in his hands, the vial on the ground after having necked it. He clamped down on the emotion he felt welling up within him. He needed to get himself under control. Obviously he was just acting weak because he had a head injury—he would never shame himself by being so emotional otherwise. He hadn’t cried through all of this. Not when his father stopped talking, not when he got bad, not when he lost, ever. He wouldn’t cry now. Not in Potter’s bathroom, concussed and bloody, with fucking Harry Potter offering to make him tea and dinner and looking at him with that intense, concerned expression on his face after saving him again because he couldn’t do any fucking thing right in the world and wasn’t suited to succeed at anything by himself. And it was all for nothing too, this whole night, because now that he was calmer and alone he could feel around in his pockets and realize they’d taken all his winnings for the night, too. He felt despondent and so entirely alone, and for the first time in many years, the entire weight of his situation seemed to finally be crushing him.

After a beat of standing face to face with a silent closed door, Harry sighed and headed over to the kitchen and put the kettle on, leaning on the counter, scrubbing his face with his hands, and trying to figure out how he’d gotten into yet another huge mess with Draco Malfoy.

-*- 

Harry heard the shower start about ten minutes later, and figured Draco would want some clothes that were properly washed, instead of some that had been _scourgified_ stiff as he had surely done. He went to his dresser and pulled out one of his comfortable t-shirts, an unassuming football one, making sure it wasn’t Gryffindor colors. He didn’t want to offend Draco more than he had already just by being himself—he might storm out, and then only Merlin knew what he would do. He pulled out some sweatpants, too, and socks, though he left him to fend for himself on pants.

He knocked on the door gently. “Draco,” he called, and the water stilled. “I’ve some clean clothes here, if you’d like them. I’ll leave them folded outside of the door for you.”

The water turned on again, and Harry ran his hands through his hair, berating himself for expecting a thank-you. Of course he wouldn’t get one. It was Draco Malfoy, not a reasonable human being.

In the bathroom, Draco gently scrubbed the blood from his hair while taking care not to pull the wound open again, his breathing shallow and controlled. He pretended the moisture on his cheeks was from the showerhead.

-*- 

When Draco finally emerged from the bathroom nearly an hour later, Harry didn’t comment on the redness in his eyes, nor the fact that he was wearing Harry’s clothes. “Did you take the concussion remedy?” he asked from the table, trying to keep the sympathy out of his voice.

“Yes,” Draco responded, his voice raspy and clearing his throat. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I know,” Harry said. He motioned to an open seat, set with a plate, utensils and a glass of water. “You should eat.”

“I’m a healer,” Draco snapped, but sat down nonetheless and spooned some stir-fry onto his plate, taking it with him and moving to sit on the couch instead. Harry watched him, quirking an eyebrow. Count on Draco Malfoy to not even be able to share a table with him in his own flat.

Harry finished the dinner he’d started while Draco was in the bathroom and washed his things. “You should stay here for another few hours until the potion starts to work,” He said over his shoulder. “Ideally, its twelve hours no traveling after taking it, and you’re welcome to stay, but I have a feeling that won’t happen.”

He caught Draco shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. “That’s fine. Just do your washing up afterwards. The floo powder’s on the mantle.”

Draco nodded stiffly and took a minute bite of food. Harry knew he must still feel dizzy and nauseous—he’d gotten a fair amount of concussions in training and in the field. Intending to leave him to himself, Harry went to his bedroom.

“Why are you doing this?” Draco asked, both of their backs turned from one another. Harry paused.

“You know why,” he said, looking back. He could only see the back of Draco’s blonde head, the whitish hair turned gold by the water.

“No,” he said to his still very full plate. “I don’t, not really. Not for all of this—this.” He made a vague hand gesture in the air. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t, but I want to,” Harry said, a bit bemused. It seemed only natural to him. Draco had been a prick, but the war was past, it was time to put prejudices to bed, and he was obviously down on his luck. Between his family and whatever he’d gotten himself into, he needed some help, even if it was just a hot meal and someone who cared enough to keep him from doing something stupid. “Plus, I mean, you’re Teddy’s family. The kid deserves to be able to meet his cousin without us going at each other’s throats.”

Draco considered this. He had stayed away from the Lupin child before now, mostly because of his relationship with Potter. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to see him, but that was not something to try to think over with a brain injury.“You still don’t have to do this.”

He shrugged and smirked. “Guess you’re just lucky.”

Draco barked a harsh laugh at that, but didn’t ask any more questions. Harry retreated to his bedroom. It was many hours later, when the moon was high in the sky and the night was cold, that he was awoken by the rush of the floo, and knew that Draco had left.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

 

Draco came home to the Manor a few weeks later. He’d taken care in the ring, putting on glamours to conceal his recognizable hair, going less often than usual, just enough to take the edge off when things felt particularly overwhelming and keep up a steady flow of cash. He apparated out of bathroom stalls now instead of the alley. The two men who had confronted him before had all but disappeared—frightened and bewildered, probably, about how Draco had escaped. He didn’t know if Potter had sicced Obliviators on them, but he figured he hadn’t gone to the trouble of finding them again, especially considering his involvement with the Malfoys was strictly off the books and not to mention that he didn’t even have clearance to be in America.

When he walked into the Manor he heard voices in the side room and found, much to his surprise, that Harry was talking to his mother. They seemed to be getting along quite well.

“Would you like some tea, love?” Narcissa asked Draco, but he shook his head.

“No, thank you, Mum,” he said, not wanting to spend much time with Potter. He felt awkward and out of place remembering how Harry had offered to take care of him that night, knowing that this man, his rival, whom he had disliked and competed against and been humiliated by for so long, knew more about him and his life than anyone else on the planet—including his own family. “I think I’ll go check up on Father.”

“He’s doing better today,” she said with a small smile. “He seems a bit more alert. I’m sure he would be happy to see you.”

“Hm,” Draco replied noncommittally, heading away from them in a hurry and purposefully avoiding eye contact with Harry.

Harry watched him walk down to the dungeons—“the cellar”, Narcissa called it, if only to avoid thinking about where her husband really was. _Have I done something wrong?_ he wondered.

_*_

 _Hey, Draco, ever since your mother saved my life and I testified for you, she and I have been the best of pals. Also, I’m trying to reunite you both with the exiled and only surviving members of the Black family, because I’m basically one of them. Sorry to leave you out of the loop, but we don’t have the capability to communicate like normal, civilized adults, and your mother seems to think this topic is one she can’t broach herself._ Harry sighed. That obviously wasn’t going to work.

Since learning about Lucius, Harry started visiting Narcissa quite frequently. Not just because of the senior Malfoy’s state, or the life debt, but on Andromeda’s behalf. She knew her sister had at least the semblance of a cordial relationship with Harry, which was more than she could say about the two of them, and thought he could make a good middleman. She knew her sister’s family wasn’t in a good way and wanted to see her again.  She wanted Narcissa to have a part in little Teddy’s life, who was now nearing four years of age.

Andy had been hesitant contacting them in the years after the war, mostly due to Lucius’ presence in the household. But now it was different. Narcissa was mostly alone. Lucius was stowed away, under the watchful care of his wife and five attentive house elves. Draco was brought up often in conversation, but was significantly lacking in physical presence at the Manor.

Draco was not coping well, but Harry believed that reconnecting the two families would benefit both of them. Narcissa had asked him to watch out for him, and of course he’d done it, but her request was a secondary motivation for him.

It was all primarily because of Teddy, and Andy, and a strange part of himself that said it might be worth it, if he just looked a little harder than he had before. It was not so much the debt that fueled him, despite all of Draco’s sneers about Harry’s “relentless _honorability_ ”. Having been raised in the Muggle world, life debts were not so important, at least not to Harry. But he knew they were important to Draco, with all his pride and traditional upbringing. And he knew that if he told Draco that he was trying to get to know him because he wanted to have a good, stable future for Teddy and he wanted the boy to have a positive relationship with all his remaining family members, he would have scoffed in his face, insulted him, and ran away. Not because family didn’t matter to Draco, Harry didn’t think that at all—he knew family mattered very much to Draco. He just also knew that Draco didn’t consider Teddy and Andy family.  

But family was important to Harry, and his definition of the word wasn’t limited by blood. Because he was tasked with being one of Teddy’s guardians, that also meant Teddy’s family was important to him, no matter how irascible some of its members were.

It was of the utmost importance to Andromeda and Harry that Teddy was safe. And Narcissa agreed, even though Harry knew she mainly did so because it meant another pair of eyes was watching over Draco.

They all wanted to make sure that Draco was stable enough to meet the little boy. Narcissa had asked him if he knew anything about where Draco was going, and Harry didn’t want to lie to her.

“I know quite a bit,” Harry admitted. “But it’s not my place to talk about it. I’d rather he talk to you.”

Harry had to admit, Narcissa was frightening when she was angry. She was much more composed than either her husband or her son. She was angry in a cold, graceful, powerful way, the kind that made one feel as though they were shrinking before her, getting smaller every second. But she also knew the power in keeping secrets, and she conceded to that. “Is he in danger?”

Harry considered. “None I can’t get him out of.”

She nodded. “See that you do so, Mr. Potter.”

And that was that.

Harry figured that at least fighting was kept in the ring, a specific time, a specific place. He thought that just maybe if the other man saw him often enough, got used to him, or at the very least got used to having people try to support him even if he wouldn’t let them, he would be able to stop running away from them all. Teddy could be good for him. They could be good for each other.

Narcissa had already come over to Andromeda’s a few times, each with Harry in tow to defuse the tension and to take care of Teddy while the two sisters sorted themselves out. It had taken no small convincing on his part to get Narcissa to accompany him—she was hesitant, riddled with guilt for the way she had treated her sister and unsure of where she stood. But now they seemed to be getting on well, though sometimes the conversations seemed a bit stilted and awkward. Teddy was a bit intimidated by her, but that child in particular had never known a stranger, and she had quickly become taken with the little blue-haired bundle of energy.

They hadn’t mentioned Draco to Teddy at all. And Harry didn’t like that—he didn’t like hiding his cousin from him. For reasons of his own, he felt strongly that Teddy should get to make his own impressions of his family. But he needed to make sure Draco would treat him right, and so he only wanted them to meet in an environment that he, Narcissa, and Andromeda could control.

After many conversations with Narcissa, Harry realized that Draco had been so deeply involved in the war in order to to protect his family—that he had done whatever he could to protect them, much more than Harry realized most would be willing to do. He hoped that he would be willing to _stop_ fighting for them, too.

But Harry also knew that if Draco did anything to hurt Teddy, he would make sure they never saw each other again. And so because it was such an important conversation, he procrastinated talking about it with Draco. But he needed to, and he needed to soon, for the sake of everyone involved. Teddy might be able to have a big family, one that loved him, unlike what Harry had grown up with. Harry wanted to help him have that. And so he’d have to do this very carefully.

_*_

 “You want me to meet him?” Draco asked Harry incredulously, after he tracked him down later that same day in the Manor. Draco was still studiously avoiding Harry’s eyes, his gaze sliding off his face blankly every time he looked up, pretending he didn’t know him even though they were quite clearly engaged in a conversation. Harry noticed that, alongside the stilted behavior, Draco looked haggard and exhausted again; probably up early with classes, up late with fighting, and no doubt going back and forth from Wiltshire to America didn’t help with the time difference, and of course seeing his father was difficult—though it did seem, as Narcissa said, that he was improving slightly. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes with a weary hand and Harry felt a twinge of sympathy, much like he’d felt the night Draco had stayed at his flat and healed himself.

“I’m his godfather,” he explained. “I want what’s best for him. I spend a lot of time at their house. I watch him on my days off. He’d love to meet you.”

Draco scoffed, tugging at his bangs. “I’m not good with children, Potter.” _Nor with most adults, either_ , he thought mutinously.

“Your mother said the same thing, but she’s entirely taken with him.”

“Andromeda wouldn’t want me there.”

“Andromeda has specifically been asking after you. Of course she would. Narcissa is coming tomorrow too.”

Draco looked at his hands, wrapped around a warm mug of tea and pulled close to him. It was always so drafty in the cellar, it gave him a chill all the way down to his bones. “I’ll think about it,” he said softly, but with a note of finality that said he wanted to be left alone

“Alright,” Harry replied. He could give him the space he needed, if he considered it.

_*_ 

Teddy melted Draco’s cold demeanor almost instantly. Harry marveled at it.

The tired man who Harry had almost never seen smile was actually laughing, sitting on a brightly colored rug, making little origami birds fly around the small boy’s vibrant head who laughed until he gave himself hiccups.

“Thank you for bringing him,” Narcissa said to him quietly, standing together in the hallway outside. Draco hadn’t noticed either of them. “I think this is good for him.”

“I don’t think he would have come if you weren’t here,” Harry told her. “It was more you than me.”

“Either way, you helped get him here. And Teddy is obviously taken with him.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, still a little mystified.

Narcissa squeezed his shoulder and padded down the stairs to where Andromeda sat on the couch, joining her sister in conversation. Harry stayed a while longer, just watching, listening to that laugh like bells in his ears, seeing the way Draco’s eyes lit up when his expression was so open, seeing him smile when he was truly happy, and he felt something twist in his chest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! This chapter is a bit longer than the others. Enjoy! :D  
> There's some violent bits towards the end of this chapter here, so if that's not your thing, best skip it.

6.

           

Alcohol was a staple in American universities, Draco found early on.

He didn’t have many friends but he did have a way with words, an air of brooding distraction, and with his intense, pale eyes, aristocratic nose, and fine cheekbones, he had a face that was intriguing to look at. People flocked to him. He was always welcomed, and especially at parties.

He’d never indulged in alcohol before. Never drank at all except for a few glasses of expensive wine here and there—it wasn’t proper for a Malfoy to get drunk. In Britain, he had to keep up appearances at all times.

But here in America, that rule didn’t apply half as much.

The first night, he didn’t like the spinning sensation, the feeling of being out of control. But he liked the forgetfulness and euphoria the drink induced, so he continued.

He began taking people home. Nameless, faceless people. Not too often, because he still prided himself, above all else, on being independent—but often enough, he would just want someone there. Anyone who would stay the night, give him a warm body to lie next to and pretend he was someone’s top priority, though he knew he never was.

It was easy to find someone, especially if he glamoured himself. Nothing that obscured his face—the people he slept with still knew who he was, he wasn’t that repulsive a human being to think something like deception in that manner was right, nor was he that pathetic. He just gave himself that extra aura of _have I seen him before_ , that extra glow in his faded eyes, the shine in his skin that wasn’t there. Like the makeup he’d seen others use, if a bit more intense.

When he wasn’t fighting, he was there, in the metaphorical sense of the word. With someone, without someone. His favorite drink was gin, any sort of gin, though the cheap stuff burned so much more as it went down. It was quick, it got the job done, it obliterated any sense of doubt or shame. It made his head swim pleasantly, everyone seemed to like him better, and he never had a wrong word to say.

He knew it could grow to be a problem, but it wasn’t one. Not yet. He wouldn’t let it be a problem—he had so tightly controlled everything before, he could handle this. His family needed him to handle this. His father and his mum needed him to handle this. And now he needed to for Andromeda, for Teddy. He would. He could. His vices were just that, but they were left to themselves, in their own little sphere. He would still get top marks in all his classes. He would still succeed. There was no other option.

He admitted this only to himself, only in darkened rooms after the alcohol was fading and his head felt heavy and his eyes couldn’t stay open, but he liked himself better drunk. The world’s sharp edges seemed to dull, eroded by the burn of alcohol, and even he himself seemed softer. He wondered vaguely, before falling asleep, if he would ever be able to obtain the same sort of vulnerability and openness while sober. And as darkness crept in and he drifted away, he doubted it.

Sometimes, when he was drunk, he took out the clothes he wore from Harry’s apartment and hugged them to his chest, pressing his face into them and breathing in their ever lessening scent. He tried hard not to think about why.

_*_

 _Why is he always involved?_ Draco asked himself late at night, staring at the ceiling of his flat. _Why the hell is he always involved?_

The one person to know almost everything about his life, and it was that bloody Potter, Auror, Savior. But at least he had one secret left. His sexuality and expressions of it he carefully guarded, only slightly less so now than he had as a teenager when his father was still well. The only other person who did know, in fact, besides the random blokes Draco brought home was—surprisingly—his mum.

He’d told her in a panic shortly after they got the notice informing them that Lucius was to be let out of Azkaban early on good behavior ( _good behavior_ meaning, obviously, that he’d simply bribed the right people). He knew that his father would want to rebuild their family, and he knew that the easiest way to do this would be, in Lucius’ mind, to marry Draco off straightaway to a good, law-abiding, pureblood girl with old money. And he just couldn’t do that.

Narcissa was, much to his surprise and relief, extremely kind. “I know, darling,” she’d said, after he’d gone through a stumbling and awkward half-explanation for why an arranged marriage would just never work out, words tripping out of his mouth with the grace of boulders toppling off a cliff. “I want our family to be successful, but success means nothing if you’re miserable for the rest of your life.”

Draco had thought, in that stunned moment, that she might have been talking about more than just him.

She reassured him that no, she wouldn’t let Lucius bully him into marrying someone he didn’t want to. And, a few months later, they hadn’t needed to worry about Lucius bullying anyone at all, for he had slowly begun losing the ability to talk as his illness set in.

That was something Potter would never know. His sexuality was still a secret and it was the last bit of information he could lord over him, the last bit to keep him at a comfortable distance like he did everyone else—including his mother. She had come to be both his best friend and ultimate confidant, but he still felt the need to hide, even from her.

She knew about his father’s illness, obviously, and his sexuality, both things he couldn’t help. But he’d be damned if she ever found out about the fighting. She already had more than enough to worry about, what with his father and arguing with the Ministry over reparations before they bled them dry and—apparently—trying to sort out the rest of their family. She didn’t need to worry about him. He couldn’t bear to see her face again, deeply lined and dismayed. He was supposed to be the good child, to make his parents proud. Though he felt he truly only had one parent left, he would try twice as hard for her.

He couldn’t disappoint her, and so she could never know, and that secret created distance. And with Harry…he had to keep him away. He’d never been good at letting people in. He didn’t know why—he just had to push them back. He didn’t know what disastrous sort of things would happen if he ever let anyone get too close to him, but knowing him, it had to be bad. Especially them. Especially Harry.

They would never work together anyway, as acquaintances, or friends, or whatever other thing Draco couldn’t admit that he wanted, not even to himself. He was the Savior, and Draco was the Death Eater. Beyond saving. Everyone knew that.

He looked at the clock and sighed in frustration. He decided if he couldn’t get to sleep, he might as well enjoy himself, and headed out of bed to get a drink.

_*_

Harry woke up to a burning heat in his pocket. Shoving on his glasses and blearily grabbing his wand—nearly falling out of bed in the process—he fished the key from the folds in the fabric and found himself dumped onto the carpet in the living space of a small but meticulously neat flat.

He jumped up, ready for a crisis, but nothing seemed to be happening. Everything was still, and save for a few bumps and clatters in what was presumably the bathroom, there was no noise except the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“Draco?” he called, and a blonde head emerged in the doorway, his body soon following in a muddle of elbows, knees and sharp angles.

“Potter,” Draco slurred. “So glad you came.”

“Are you…drunk?” he asked, staring at the sloshing glass in his left hand, his right gripping the door frame to help him stand upright.

“Certainly not,” Draco argued. “Not at all. Not a bit. Fuck you, Potter.”

“Alright.” Harry regarded Draco’s swaying figure and realized that they were both in pyjamas, though Draco’s looked far nicer than his own ratty ones. He felt as though all this was some sort of strange dream, and the late hour didn’t help one bit. “Did you need something?”

“No,” Draco said, straightening up abruptly. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re terrible and fuck you.”

“What?” Harry asked, confused and angry. “What the fuck, Malfoy?”

“Ah, back to Malfoy, is it?” Draco asked, swaying as he stumbled to the small kitchenette. “I knew it was there somewhere.”

“You’re drunk,” Harry said. “You need to go to bed. It’s a Tuesday night, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Time isn’t real,” Draco slurred, tossing his glass roughly into the sink with a crash. “It doesn’t matter when I get drunk, I can whenever because I’m a grown adult.”

Harry jerked his wand at the sink and the glass repaired itself. “I’m not playing babysitter for you, Malfoy. Go to bed.”

“Very authoritative, Auror Potter,” Draco sneered. “What do you intend to do once I’m there?”

Harry rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d made a terrible decision, after all. Draco was in no way ready to meet Teddy. Drunk, alone on a Tuesday night? And probably still fighting too, though he hadn’t gotten another call from him besides this one since the incident. 

“Were you out with friends? Did they leave you like this?”

“I don’t have friends,” Draco explained, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. The confession sounded so sincere until he clarified, “I have minions.”

“Shove off,” Harry scoffed, turning to go. “I’m leaving.” 

Draco stumbled towards him. “Wait,” he said, louder than Harry thought he must have intended. A hand landed roughly on his shoulder, and Harry turned back to face him, closer together than he expected. Draco’s breath, smelling of gin, reached his nose. His grey eyes were wide and unfocused, his lips slightly open as though he wasn’t sure what to say next.

Harry sighed. “Have you been fighting, Draco?” Of course he had. It would make sense. After all, they’d made no promises. Harry just hoped, was all. Hoped Draco wanted to be better.

“Not tonight,” he mumbled, his words almost incomprehensible. “Not as much.”

“Why do you even do it?” This Draco, drunk Draco, was more talkative than sober one. Harry felt a twinge of guilt, knowing he probably shouldn’t ask him like this, but he needed to know.

 His answer startled Harry. “I need to be better. It’s the only way.”

“Better at what?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. Draco was drunk, but Harry was sure he was still smart, even if his sharp intellect was a little dulled at the moment.

Draco’s eyes slid past him. “Everything is shit,” he said, patting the shoulder he still held for emphasis. “I can do this right.”

“You’re training to be a healer. I would say that’s a pretty big something you’re doing right. They even gave you a big scholarship for your scores on the entrance exam, Narcissa told me.”

“That’s just bullshit,” Draco muttered, stumbling away from him. He almost fell, but Harry caught him with a strong hand on his arm, and led him to the couch, where he sat with a _thump_.

“Why is it bullshit?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, which would have looked aloof had he not been sprawled sideways on the cushions. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me, Potter? Going out for psychology next, when being an Auror no longer interests you?”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Harry said. He resigned himself to stay for a bit. He was never going back to sleep, not anytime soon, anyway. “I’ll make something to eat. You’ll feel better with food.”

Draco shook his head. “No.”

“You will. My cooking wasn’t that bad last time, was it?”

He just continued shaking his head.

“Do you really wanna know why I fight?” he asked.

Harry looked at him sitting there, sprawled inelegantly on the couch with his disheveled hair in his glassy eyes, and felt a pang of guilt. “I shouldn’t have asked you that right now. I—sorry.” Harry winced. Apologizing, to _Malfoy._ And then he berated himself, because he was trying not to call him that.

“Don’t apologize. You’re terrible at it. I’ll show you why I do what I do.” Draco got up and stumbled to the bathroom. Hesitantly, Harry followed, watching him rummage through the small cabinet there. He pulled out a small vial of bright orange potion. Sobering potion—it tended to work better than the spell, less forceful, and cancelled out a lot of the hangover bleariness and aching. Even drunk, of course Draco would pick the top-quality option.

Necking it, he turned to Harry, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the bedroom, where he started pulling clothes from his closet. Sweatpants, a sweatshirt, trainers—

“Whoa, wait,” Harry stopped him. “Let the potion do its job. We’re not going anywhere. You drank a lot, I think—one potion can’t replenish everything. Just go to sleep, Draco.”

Draco stared at him, his eyes hazy but still so intense. Harry noticed flecks of silver and blue mixed in with the gray. “Do you want to know?”

“Not now.”

“Now or never, Scarhead.” He yanked off his pyjamas before Harry could stop him, pulling on the sweats abruptly and stuffing his feet in his shoes, unconcerned about his lack of decorum. “I’m going. I’ve made my mind up. It’s a matter of with or without you, now.”

“I…” Harry didn’t like this. He hadn’t meant this to happen. He didn’t expect Draco to actually want to _go_ , but now he felt responsible for planting the idea in his addled head, and didn’t know how to talk him out of it. “I have nothing to wear,” he muttered reluctantly.

Draco grunted and jabbed his wand at Harry. He felt the fabric shift around him, and suddenly he was wearing jeans. Draco threw a different sweatshirt at him, which he caught distractedly.

“How’d you—”

“I’m great at Transfiguration. Second-best in the entire class, just under Granger. Do keep up,” he said with a smirk. “The potion's already doing its job. Ready?"

“No,” Harry admitted. “But do it anyway.”

Draco took his arm, and they apparated away.

_*_

Harry did not like the ring. He didn’t like it at all.

For one, he hated crowds. Especially large, rowdy ones. Stinking of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, alcohol, and, he noticed as they got closer to the ring itself, blood. The noise was nearly deafening. The lights were dim, but the brightest shone directly in the center of the crowd, a ray around which men were clustered like flies. Just being in the crush of people would have been enough to make him jittery, but Harry was surrounded by people he could hardly even see, and that did nothing for his nerves. Draco, however, seemed unperturbed by any of this; the stench, the dirt, the rough crowd. To Harry’s astonishment, he even seemed eager as he pressed forward.

The crowd roared, and Draco cheered with them, a nearly manic grin on his lips. His teeth flashed like his eyes, wide and jittery. “I think the fight just ended,” he yelled into Harry’s ear, tugging him down so they could reach, his cheek grazing the other man’s. “I’m gonna see who it is. Stay here.” He sounded positively gleeful.

Harry tried to catch him, tried to stop him, but he moved like quicksilver and disappeared before he had a chance to say anything. Begrudgingly, Harry plodded slowly through the crowd, his senses already overwhelmed by the noise and the smells and the movement around him.  Leave—this was just the sort of thing he avoided, after the war. But he had to get a good spot to see the ring, to make sure Draco was alright. And, if he was honest, the small part of him that wasn’t screaming to get out was admittedly curious about what Draco intended to do.

If anything was going to happen, he had to be prepared for it. He knew that Draco had ceased to be a stranger to him and had started becoming something else, something not like any friend Harry had ever had, but something important, nevertheless.

Harry peered over the head of the man in front of him, wincing at the raucous din, and saw Draco pulling off his sweatshirt and tossing it over one of the ropes marking the edge of the ring. His skin looked pasty in the dingy light, but coupled with his hair, he seemed almost luminous. A lost creature, a speck of something clean in a den of debauchery and violence.

The muscles in his back and shoulders shifted with his movements. Harry would have guessed, before now, that Draco was just as skinny as he had been when he’d seen him in school, though not as deathly gaunt as he’d been during the war. Looking now, however, he realized just how inaccurate his assumption was—the light clung to his biceps, his chest. Drawn to him however he moved, keeping him in definition as he slowly began to circle his opponent, never turning his back to him.

As Draco moved, scars across his torso shifted and caught the light, almost delicate, like spider webs. Save for the longest one, cutting him diagonal from collarbone to hip, tearing him in two. Emotion hit Harry like a punch in the gut, that immediate drop in his stomach, but despite his guilt the scars seemed right, somehow. They told a story. They told these people that Draco had known pain and fought through it. They made him more one of them.

He watched Draco drop into a crouch, bent low at the knee, shoulders up around his ears, fists defensive and at the ready.  He was tense but moved with grace, like a predator. His eyes were locked on his target, now with a point of focus for all the jittering, bubbling energy he’d had in the crowd, and his gaze was intense, that same look Harry was so used to receiving now fixed on someone different. Everything Draco had in him pointed directly to the man he was fighting: It was like he didn’t even hear the thunder of the crowd around him.

Harry watched him dart away as his opponent lunged. Draco moved in rapidly and struck at the man’s weaker side before he had a chance to bring his arm back up to defend it. The opponent reached for him, but Draco bolted backwards, out of his reach. They circled each other cautiously, slowly getting closer and closer, the other man now more hesitant than before.

Draco struck low, in small jabs to the ankles, shins and knees. Nothing flashy—he was patient, restraining himself. He mostly relied on kicks. Harry realized he didn’t know the rules of this ring, this club or whatever it was. It was obviously illegal. But surely there had to be some regulation, some rules. He didn’t like that there was so much he didn’t know—this was unfamiliar territory for him, and Draco had given him absolutely no information. He felt like he was getting tugged every which way, his attention too spread out.

Harry kept getting jostled on all sides, and couldn’t quite get the full picture of Draco’s opponent that he wanted—only glimpses of strong shoulders and dark hair, and then someone’s head would bob in his way, or someone would elbow him in the side, or push him trying to get by. He shifted to what he hoped was a better spot and figured that as long as he kept Draco in his sights, he could get them out if anything truly terrible started.

The opposing man, who Harry could now see was noticeably larger than Draco, suddenly lunged in and lashed out with his right fist again. Draco shied away, taking the punch as a glancing blow to his cheek, before spinning in close to his opponent’s one again unguarded torso and jabbed him with a brutal elbow to the stomach. He buckled with a wheeze. Draco took the opportunity to turn once again and smash the man’s face into his knee, gripping the back of his head. The man let out a yell of pain and rage and tried desperately to wrap his arms around Draco. He managed to wriggle out of his grasp and fling himself aside, so far he almost made it to the other end of the ring.

But he didn’t, because the other man caught his ankle in a grip that sent him crashing to the floor. Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting, the gigantic gasp he’d inhaled immediately going straight to his head as the room started spinning. _Don’t let him get hurt_ , screamed through his mind, urgent and red. _You’re an Auror, it’s your job to protect people_. Interestingly, he was much more concerned about Draco’s safety than that of his opponent—but that was a thought he dismissed rapidly. There was no time to think.

Despite Draco’s struggles, his opponent managed to pin his arms and get in one, two, three good whacks. Harry cringed every time he heard flesh hit flesh, clenching his jaw until he was sure his teeth would crack and trying to shove the people blocking him from the ring. The crowd around him grew louder and more raucous with each hit, the air crackling with excitement and blood lust.

Draco managed to get one arm free. He distracted his opponent with a halfhearted swipe at his eyes, and then used his leverage to head-butt him straight in the nose just as Harry got to the side of the ring. The larger man reared back with a howl, one hand covering his face in an attempt to staunch the blood. Draco shot backwards as fast as his legs would take him and scrambled upwards, spitting blood.

Again, they circled. Harry’s nerves were frayed. He gripped the rope sectioning off the fight until his knuckles turned white. It was his fault they were here—Draco’s misguided belief that he was proving something to him. He had to get him out, before he really hurt himself. But as he made to grab to duck under the rope, his hand was wrenched away and he was unceremoniously pushed backwards, into the crowd.

“Wait it out!” a mouth with beer on its breath yelled in his ear. “We all have bets, you can’t go charging in there just because you’re losing!” The meaty hand clapped on his shoulder shoved him again, and for a few seconds, he couldn’t see the ring. He scrambled to throw people out of the way, listening to the sounds of violence and hoping that Draco was not the one receiving blows. Though the idea that he was giving them also disturbed Harry, albeit for a different reason. This Draco went against everything he thought he knew about him. The one who’d never dared to get his hands dirty. The one who scorned everything muggle, who let magic do everything for him. That Draco would never have been caught dead in an actual fight, would never have reveled like this in the strength of his body enough to risk injury for it.

He managed to shove the final spectator out of the way, just as the victor was announced. The loser was a lump on the ground, groaning, immobile.

Draco stood, chest jumping, limbs shaking and fingers twitching. His hair stood on end in disarray, dark with sweat. His eyes became quicksilver once more, always in motion, wide and eager to take in everything overwhelming around him. He had blood on his chin, dribbling down from a cut on his lip, but didn’t move to catch it. He was smiling. A sharp-edged grin, wilder than any other emotion Harry had ever seen on Draco’s face. He looked…electrified.

Harry marveled. His breath was lost. In that moment, nothing existed but Draco.

This was not what he expected.

This changed things, Harry knew. How, he wasn’t sure. And probably not for the better, a small part of him protested. But, there he was. Bloody and sweat-streaked, so pale he was otherworldly, feral and victorious and so…

So _hot_.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

 

“Hermione, I just don’t know what to do with him.”

Harry had been talking to Hermione now for at least an hour. Ron and Hugo had been sent off to the Burrow, temporarily banished from their flat because if Hermione spent one more second listening to the baby cry she swore she would rip all of her hair out, and then all of Ron’s.

Harry hadn’t told her and Ron about much, just that he’d been talking to Narcissa on Andy’s behalf, and he needed to fill in the blanks for her. He didn’t want to involve Ron just yet, not while everything was still up in the air and difficult to define. He couldn’t tell him that he wanted Draco involved in Teddy’s life because he thought it would be good for the little boy, despite the fact that Draco was very clearly unstable. And maybe he was right in doing so, because Ron would have voiced some very rational doubts about it. But family was family, and Harry was steadfast in that Teddy should at least know him, just a little bit. Draco had spent time with him, after all, and they seemed to get along very well.

“So…Draco thinks this is all just because you owe his family a life debt?”

“Not all, but a lot,” Harry responded glumly. “Narcissa and I both agreed. He would have too much pride if I said I was helping him and his family because I wanted them to befriend Andy and Teddy. Besides, both reasons do matter…just Teddy matters more.”

Hermione brought their mugs to the sink and gave them a wash, mulling over what Harry had told her. “I think Draco is lonely,” she said after a while. “It doesn’t seem as though he’s stayed in contact with anyone from Hogwarts, and from what he said to you I doubt he has any American friends, either. And I think he has some obvious issues with trauma.”

“Do you think I should keep him away from Teddy?” Harry asked, troubled.

“That’s up to you. You’re the Auror,” she reminded gently. “I’m more worried about you, honestly.”

“Me?”

“Well, yes. He’s called you over twice now. Once, he was in real danger—have you gotten him to explain to you what was happening when you showed up?”

“Not a thing. I don’t think the others were wizards, though, or they would have set up wards. Maybe someone in the ring got angry with him, the apparition coordinates weren’t too far away from where he goes.”

“Hm. And the other time he was drunk, argued, and then fell asleep.”

“About the gist of it, yeah.” Harry didn’t know why he felt the need to keep to himself the night Draco had showed him. It felt personal, being invited by Draco to the fight. And Harry passively _watching_ Draco fight was certainly something Hermione would have immediately and strongly disapproved of.

She shook her head. “He…he has issues. I don’t know, Harry. We’ve always known he has problems.”

“Yeah. I think, though, he was doing alright until Lucius went downhill. That’s what Narcissa said.”

Hermione shrugged. “He’s difficult. Do you really want to be the one to sort through all of his difficulties? Will he even let you?”

“I dunno,” Harry admitted. “I feel like I should try, though.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s Teddy’s cousin? Because he was just trying to survive? Because we’ve always been weirdly obsessed with each other? I dunno, Hermione. He’s this weird constant in my life. It all just feels…unfinished. There’s no closure.”

“Hm.” Hermione twirled the end of one of her curls in her fingers. “I don’t trust him. But he hasn’t done anything nefarious since the end of the war with the wizarding world. And if you think he’s worth it, Harry…if anyone can, you can do it.” She sighed. “Of course I support you. I think it’d be a good thing even, for people to see the two of you as friends. If you both can put the past behind you, it really means so can the rest of the world.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “If that happens. I just…can’t figure him out.”

Hermione made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “You never could, Harry. I think that’s why he bothered you so much.”

 

_*_

 

_I’ve gone insane_ , Draco thought unhappily.

His head pounded and his eyes felt gritty. He needed to get up and get a headache potion, but he couldn’t bring himself to move just yet. He was lying on his couch, a blanket thrown over him and his head on a pillow, one arm dangling off the cushion.

_Potter_ , he thought. _Did I dream that?_

He hoped so.

Calling Saint Potter in the middle of the night, dead drunk. Completely sloshed. Well, if he was honest with himself, not so sloshed. Drunk, yes, but not _completely_ polluted. He was still very much in control of all his actions. Which made him cringe just thinking about it. _Why did I make him come with me?_

He still couldn’t stand Potter, he was adamant about that. He kept the clothes he’d borrowed that night because he had no other choice, he hadn’t had a chance to give them back yet. That was all. And he called on him only because he knew he would answer. Stupid, noble Saint Potter.

But still, a niggling little voice in the back of his head wasn't satisfied. _Why did I do that?_

He didn’t glamour himself, that night, he realized with a start. He’d been too caught up, too excited, too proud. He hadn’t wanted Potter to watch someone else fight—he wanted Potter to see _him_. And he had. Problem was, so had everyone else.

Draco pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and groaned.

He would get up and start his day, eventually. When he felt less sorry for himself.

 

_*_

 

Screwing up his courage, Draco knocked on the door of the quaint little cottage. He heard rustling on the other side of the door, rapid little footsteps, a high-pitched, excitable voice, and a lower, older one.

Andy opened the door, her hair streaked with gray, eyes surprised but warm.

“Oh,” she said. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Can I come in?” he asked, shivering from the cold. She opened the door a little further, and he cautiously stepped inside.

If he was going to do this, he was going to do this right. He was grown. He didn’t need anyone’s help. Not his mother’s, not Saint Potters. He liked Teddy. More than that, he had a duty to him as one of his only blood relatives. He thought he wanted to be a part of his life, thought maybe he could help him, be there for him if he needed it. And he didn’t know Andy yet, but if that’s what it took to be able to help with Teddy, he would get to know her.

He had always been the youngest in his family. It was good to finally have someone little. Someone who didn’t expect anything from Draco other than for Draco to just be kind to him. People had expected a lot from him in the past—to have decorum, to excel in school, to represent his family well, to fight, to be a Death Eater. Not just his father, either. And now that the war was over, others still had expectations for him—to be a Death Eater, unforgivable, violent and bigoted and guilty, _so_ guilty. Everything he did now, his isolation, his healing, his fighting, was to atone for his past sins. The ones he would never make up for.

Nobody had ever expected him to simply be kind.

It was strange and new, but he thought he liked it. He thought he could be kind, maybe, if he was given the chance.

He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to prove to Teddy, to Andy, to his mother and all the important people that he could stop hurting people, maybe. Maybe.

And so, he walked in.

 

_*_

 

Draco opened the door, surprised to see Harry’s disheveled mop on the Manor’s doorstep. “Why are you here? Father is doing better, your doctor is working wonders.” They had talked with him, even, and were preparing to move Lucius from the cellar back to his separate bedroom. The doctor thought he was well enough, and though Draco was still hesitant, Narcissa seemed happy enough to go along with it.

“I’m not here to see him, I’m here to talk to you.”

“Look, about that night—”

Harry cut him off with a raised hand and looked at him beseechingly. “Can I come in?”

Draco pursed his lips, but held the door open for him. If Potter wanted to talk about the fight, he was sorely misguided. “What is this about?” he asked, following Potter to the sitting room.

“It’s about Teddy. And, me, I guess.”

Alarm shot through him. “Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”

“No—no,” Harry clarified firmly. “It’s about the family.”

“Andromeda has already told me a lot,” Draco started guardedly. “I want to be in his life.”

Harry sighed. “And I want you to be too.”

Draco raised one fine, blonde eyebrow. “Do you?” The skepticism was heavy in his voice.

“I just…I’m his godfather. Andy and I are his guardians. He’s already lost his parents—he can’t afford to lose someone else too.”

“And you think he’ll lose me?”

Draco’s grey eyes, icy and piercing, bore into him. His head was cocked like Harry was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. 

"I think,” Harry started, trying to select his words carefully, “that I don’t know you well enough to make that judgment.”

“Guilty until proven innocent?”

Harry squared his shoulders and stared back at him. “We’re all guilty of something, Malfoy.” Draco scoffed and made like he was going to make a comment, but Harry continued on. “I need to know you’ll have a good impact on Teddy.”

“Of course I will.”

“Draco, you beat the shit out of people for fun.”

Draco scowled. “It’s not for _fun_.”

“Then what is it for?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Draco snapped. “How the hell should I know?”

“You’re the one _doing_ it!”

“Fuck off, Potter! You can’t keep me from seeing him just because you dislike me! I’m his _family_.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t…God, Draco, I don’t dislike you anymore. I hardly know you.”

Draco watched him, still angry, but waiting. His quicksilver eyes were steady.

This was already not going to plan. He didn’t want to quarrel with Draco. He wanted to get him to trust him, to be able to trust him back. He wanted to talk to him, to get an explanation for all this hurricane, whirlwind violence. He wanted to make sure he was good for Teddy. And some strange, small, outspoken part of him again wanted to protect him, much as he tried to squash it.

The image of him, victor of the ring, bloody and burning and so _intense_ seared the back of his eyelids once again.

Draco Malfoy did not need protecting. He did not need saving. He was not a human project to work on; he was an individual with his own (glaring) faults and his own will. Harry reminded himself that his own worth was not on how many people he helped. He reminded himself that his version of helping could be Draco’s version of stifling nosiness. He told himself that if Draco didn’t want to change, that was fine, and he could leave it up to Andy, who had less of a personal history with him, to decide everything.

But then, Harry was never very good at listening.

“I want to watch you fight,” Harry said in a breath.

Draco recoiled, surprise evident on his face. “Pardon?”

Harry stared back levelly, hoping the fact he was holding his breath didn’t show. “I want to watch you fight.”

Draco’s thin lips grew thinner. “Why?’

“Because…you’re good,” Harry replied honestly. “You’re damn good.”

Harry didn’t like being appraised by Draco, but he withstood it. Suspicion was written on the other man’s face.

“I mean it,” Harry said. “I never would have guessed you could fight like that.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. The distrust was still there, but Harry could see the pride, too. And something else, something he couldn’t quite catch, that flitted across his face. It was the same expression he’d seen just before Draco shut the door in his face, that night Harry had gotten him out of the warehouse.

Finally, after a long moment, Draco came to a decision. “I go on Thursdays,” he said abruptly. “Don’t be late.”

He turned and started walking away, obvious dismissal on Harry’s part.

“But, wait,” Harry asked. “When do you start?”

Draco smirked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Whenever I feel like it.”

And with that, the door to the room over shut behind him, and there was a house elf at Harry’s side tugging him towards the front door.

_Still a prat_ , Harry thought, exasperated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for strong language and violence. Also this is a fairly angsty chapter.

 8.

Narcissa and the elves decided that Lucius was well enough to eat with them again at the table, without consulting Draco. It was a bit of a shock for him to see his father out of the dungeons, gaunt and even paler than he usually was from lack of sunlight. He expected his eyes to look haunted, maybe remorseful or resentful, but like always now, they just looked blank.

Draco didn’t want him there, but he supposed it would be cruel to keep him in that dungeon indefinitely, just because he found his company cloyingly oppressive.

He still didn’t talk. He ate mechanically, like he didn’t taste anything on his plate. And when either Narcissa or Draco talked, he stared off into space. If he happened to make eye contact with them, by sheer chance most likely, he always looked blank. Dead trout. The type of look a corpse had in its eyes.

It frightened Draco. It made him sad. But mostly it just made him angry. Angry and frustrated. But at least he didn’t try to hurt anyone. That was good. That meant the medication was working. Whatever had driven him before, impulse, hallucinations, insanity or dark magic, seemed to be dispelled, at least for now.  But Draco doubted he would ever be the same.

Was he terrible, that some part of him was glad for it?

He would never have to disappoint his father if he no longer existed as the man he used to be. If Draco ever had a relationship or married anyone, he would hardly know. He already disapproved of his choice to go abroad to America, but Draco couldn’t stay. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t get into any program, prestigious or not, even with his grades. He had to travel.

Draco saw it as a necessity. Lucius saw it as a concession, a sign of weakness, and a signification of failure within his son that he couldn’t overcome other people’s perceptions and memories of the war and restore the Malfoy family name back to its former glory. He didn’t care that Draco was trying in the only way he could. So in a way, it was a relief to have him gone.

Draco still wished that he would leave for good, though. Do the job thoroughly, rather than leaving them this husk.

The only conversation was stilted and died rapidly, falling to silence. Throughout much of the meal, the most noise was the clink of utensils against the dishes. It became oppressive to Draco. He was used to silence, but only the silence that he made himself. He was not used to taking his meals at the Manor, and he was even less used to being reminded of his father’s state as he did so.

He put down his fork with more force than necessary and looked into his father’s face.

“I’m gay,” he said, quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his mother stopped eating, fork poised halfway to her mouth before lowering it. Even when he had told her this he had walked around the word, not daring to utter it out loud, afraid she would see it as something shameful and dirty.

Lucius’ face, however, did not change.

“I’m gay,” he repeated, louder. He didn’t know what he expected from this. He didn’t know why he was doing it. Obviously his father couldn’t hear him. Obviously he wouldn’t react. Maybe that was why.

Maybe some part of him found solace in that his father could hear this, and yet do nothing. Maybe this was the one time in his life he felt he could say this, and have it be, just as it was.

“I like men. I want to marry a man, someday. I’ll never have children, at least none that are mine by blood.” Once it started, Draco felt like he couldn’t stop, this manic rush of energy overpowering him like a tidal wave, crashing down and bringing everything with it. “When I die, long after you, all our assets go to the next of kin. Teddy Lupin, the half-werewolf grandson of a blood traitor. It’ll be the end of the Malfoy line, the end of our pureblood tradition, all the wealth we’ve amassed going to someone whose grandfather was a muggle, whose father was a werewolf and whose mother as a metamorphmagus, who sacrificed their lives trying to kill the Dark Lord.”

Draco was breathing heavily, but Lucius was still oblivious. Slack was the descriptor, a word Draco never would have thought fitting for a man like his father.

He stared into his father’s lifeless eyes, and felt the anger, that captive fire and brimstone he could always count on welling up within him. It eclipsed even his fear, the old fear he’d held onto for so long, and that’s why he said, “V-Voldemort. Voldemort—your Dark Lord is dead. And everything you’ve worked for will go to the godson of the man who killed him. Everything you’ve built dies.”

Draco threw his napkin on the plate and left, knocking the chair he was sitting in over as he went. His mother called out to him, but he didn’t care, and he wasn’t sticking around to listen to what she had to say.

He was done talking.

He just needed to _get out_.

_*_

Draco felt fragile, and it disturbed him.

He was not used to feeling like this anymore.

He paced across the floor, trapped in his body.

Even halfway across the world he couldn’t escape that terrible feeling. It haunted him everywhere. The only time it didn’t was in the ring.

 _I can’t call him,_ Draco thought. _That would be pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. I don’t need anyone there but myself._

Draco stared at the key that he’d picked up with a cloth and put on his dresser.

He was itching to fight again. His fingers twitched with want, his heart already sped up, his lungs already short of breath. He needed some way to get all this bottled up emotion out. Something productive. He needed to hit something, and hit it _hard_.

He wanted to see blood on his hands, and he wanted everyone else to see it too. He didn’t care whose it was, even if it was his own. As long as they saw him, and they knew. He wasn’t fragile. He didn’t run away. He wasn’t a coward, or a failure or, an embarrassment.

He had his pride—it was his vice, his downfall. He knew he should just glamour himself and get it over with. He knew he should just go to a different ring, if glamour was really too much for him; it wouldn’t take much searching, he already knew the names of a few places from overheard conversations in the crowd. It was just a matter of asking the right people and finding their locations. But every time he thought of trading his ring for another, his father’s voice rang through his head, his disapproval dripping like poison from every vowel. _My son does not_ run away. _You should be getting a quality education here in London. Boston is a waste of your time and a waste of mine. You’re acting childish, Draco. Like a coward._

Draco was not a coward. Not anymore. Not if he could help it.

But he didn’t want to go back to the ring with no backup. He didn’t know what would happen next if he showed up again. Best case scenario, nothing, and he was being irrational, Worst case, he’d get taken again, and he didn’t know what sort of conversation that would entail this time over. He knew the sort of people that frequented that place, and he knew what they were capable of doing. He’d lived with much more capable people before.

It was at that thought that Draco swallowed heavily, shoved down his pride, and grabbed the innocent little key off the counter.

He held it in his palm for a second.

 

Two seconds.

 

Three.

 

He counted to a minute, and still Potter didn’t show up.

He waited to two before he dropped the key and kicked it under his dresser, where he wouldn’t have to look at it.

“Stupid,” Draco muttered, though whether it was about Potter or himself, he wasn’t sure.

He could go alone. He could handle himself. He could do this.

He didn’t need Potter for anything. His role was not the damsel in distress in this play. If he needed to, he could protect his own damn self.

Potter could go fuck off.

_*_

Harry was panicking.

 _Not now, not now, not now_ , he thought fervently. He was stuck behind a dumpster, trying and failing to breathe quietly through his nose after sprinting three blocks. Michelle had been undercover for the past few weeks, working as a low-level drug runner for a gang trafficking illegal stimulants into the country. The little tablets had all sorts of restricted substances as their main ingredients, not to mention the death toll of the people who abused it was ridiculous. They had finally caught one of the main dealers, gotten enough evidence to book him. Harry had gone out with a team to try to bag them, but things went south, and now their main man was getting away.

He heard footsteps approaching rapidly, ragged breathing. Muttered curses.

He did not need Draco calling him right now. He would have to wait.

“Stupefy!” Harry cried as the suspect ran past. The other man stumbled and fell, but Harry’s spell had missed, and with his position revealed he got lashed with a powerful stinging hex that left him on the ground. The suspect got up and ran, but Harry had training and stamina, and picked himself up and gave chase, ignoring the ache in his chest where he’d been stung.

The bloody bastard was quick. He hurled trash cans and curses in his wake, all of which Harry had to duck and dodge. Harry threw spells back haphazardly, whichever ones came to mind.

The suspect rounded a corner, and Harry sprinted after him.

 _“Stupefy!”_ the other man roared, catching Harry by surprise. The spell did nothing, thankfully—it hit his uniform, a special Auror-brand robe made of dragonhide and what Harry suspected to be acromantula hair by how horrendously itchy and awful it was. But however terribly uncomfortable it was, it had the positive effect of repelling most curses and charms. That didn’t stop a stunner shot point-blank into his chest from hurting like hell and blowing him back into the building, though.

He hit a windowsill with his right shoulder, shattering the glass and landing mostways through the window itself, though luckily the shop inside was empty, a foreclosure from a few months past. He scraped up his hands and arms trying to catch himself and received a wide gash on his forehead, just above his eyebrow. His glasses were thrown to the side, skittered away someplace irretrievable in the darkness. The wind completely knocked out of him, he laid on the ground and tried to calm down as his lungs spasmed, trying to get air back into them.

 _One...two...three._ On three, no matter how much pain he was still in, he forced himself to move. He couldn't let this guy get away. Collecting himself, he performed a wordless summoning spell, tapping the cracked left lens of his specs with a hasty and silent _Reparo_ as the world once again returned to focus. His adrenaline was spiked into overdrive and everything ached, but he had enough presence of mind to keep quiet and listen for the suspect. His footsteps were faint by now but Harry could hear them in the quiet of the night, running down the alley Harry had just nearly vacated.

Taking a deep breath, Harry turned and apparated. The suspect three steps away, Harry crouched and launched himself at him before the other man knew what was happening. He grabbed his wand, cast an _Incarcerous_ on his wrists, and Harry was reciting him his rights.

He had to find the rest of the team and bring this guy in. They’d been working this case for _ages_ —he needed to get this guy locked up before he could check on Draco. He knew it, but he hated it, because that meant taking him back to the Ministry, which meant jumping through dozens of hoops before getting out again. It was going to be a long, tiresome night, between reporting to the captain, the interrogation, and all the paperwork involved in both.

Still panting from exertion, Harry gritted his teeth in frustration. Draco really would have to wait.

_*_

Draco saw stars.

His teeth rattled in his jaw.

The crowd roared when they saw blood burst from his lip.

 _He didn’t come_.

He took the punches.

_He doesn’t care._

He took the pain.

_He lied to me._

And then he gave it back.

One-two, straight to the face. He clawed at his opponent’s face, hair. He took an elbow to the gut. He doubled over and threw himself at him, bringing them both to the ground. Scrambling for purchase.

His opponent tried to roll on top of him, but Draco used his weight against him, propelling him further. He managed to wrap his legs around his opponent, his arm locked in Draco’s grip. Draco twisted. The man howled. The crowd, alive, a sentient being, howled back.

Another elbow, this one to the face. His eyebrow burst. Blood blinded his right eye, dribbling down his face. There was too much; he had no time to wipe it off.

They met and recoiled, again and again. His opponent striking at his blind side, Draco going in for the places he’d already hit, the places he knew hurt.

He heard a crunch and bit back a scream—he hadn’t wrapped his hand well enough. He could feel his littlest finger starting to swell already, hot pain radiating down his forearm.

Draco got his opponent on the floor, on his belly, one arm behind his back. He twisted. And then he put his weight into it.

His opponent screamed. Draco blanked out. It reminded him too much of the war. But his body was still going strong, and he managed to keep his grip.

“Tell me to stop!” Draco ordered, still putting pressure on it.

The man screamed again.

The screams, like when Bella tortured the captives, tortured the muggles, tortured _him_ —

The Dark Lord—no, Voldemort, he had to call him Voldemort—

“Tell me to stop!” he yelled.

“Aaaaa _ahhhhhh_ —!”

His arm broke with a _crack_ that seemed to reverberate off the walls. Draco scrambled off of him and to the corner of the ring, back turned from the writhing, moaning figure. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck rise. The crowd was absolutely feral around him, reaching into the ring, pounding on the floor, howling and screeching and pushing one another.

Draco rubbed the crusted blood off his cheek, retreating as fast as he could to collect his winnings with his head down. The raucous crowd would make it difficult for anyone to get near the ring, but he wasn't about to stick around. The minute he got his money he ducked next to the wall and apparated away, his heart in his throat. The carpet be damned, he didn’t care how many holes he burnt into it trying to get the blood out. He couldn’t afford to meet his unwelcome friends tonight. Not when he was already so unsettled.

 _I didn’t mean to break his arm_ , Draco thought, his voice in his head subdued, unnerved. _I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry_. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

He stumbled when his feet hit the wood floor of his flat, his ears ringing in the sudden silence.

He took a breath. Then another. He touched his swollen lip, wincing. With every heartbeat that pounded in his chest, the words seemed to repeat. _Sorry, sorry, sorry._

He should have gone to the bathroom and gotten his first aid kit. Instead, he turned to the kitchen. He needed to heal himself, he knew. And he would. He absolutely, certainly would.

He threw his winnings onto the counter and swiped his bottle of gin off the counter. He didn’t bother mixing it—he appreciated the burn of it as it rolled down his throat, even if he came up coughing.

He would heal himself, but first, he had to get Voldemort’s looming face out of his mind, the sound of breaking bones out of his ears, and the feel of sweat-sticky skin under his palms off of his hands.

He sat down, holding the bottle to him, and started gingerly unwinding the cloth from around his good hand.

_I did fine by myself, without him. I didn’t use glamour and no one showed up. I was fine. I can take care of myself. It doesn’t matter that Potter lied._

_It doesn’t matter._

Draco took another drink.

_It doesn’t matter._

 


	9. Chapter 9

9.

 

 

“Harry, you look destroyed,” Michelle admonished. “Go home.”

“I—are you sure? It’s your first night back with us, it was all so sudden, and we still have three guys in questioning—” Harry was sitting outside of the interrogation room. His eyes felt strained and gritty. He’d been talking to the suspect for hours, trying to get useful information—or hell, any information would have been nice. He had about a mountain of paperwork to complete, including _another_ description of how the chase went, not to mention they had to file in every time they got injured. Late night had passed and early morning was setting in. Harry was undergoing the kind of fatigued, manic autopilot state of someone who was too tired to have drank as much coffee as he had.

“I’ll deal with the captain if he has any questions,” she said brusquely. She was very matter-of-fact, and funny, too, when they all weren’t exhausted. It was one of the many reasons he liked her so much. “You’ve been here ages. Go to sleep. You’ll be the only functional one for the rest of the week if you do, and then you can make it up to me ten times over. Captain says you have tomorrow off, anyway.”

Harry didn’t want to leave all the work yet to do for his partner. But the more tired he became, the more distracted he was, too. He needed to check on Draco. He needed to make sure he was alright. If it was anything like before—well, he couldn’t think about that. He was fine. He had to be fine.

Harry gave him his word he’d show up when he called, and he let him down. He couldn’t believe he’d let him down.

“Thank you, Michelle,” he told her, wrapping her in a quick hug. “You’re a godsend, really.”

She grinned. “Don’t you forget it.”

Harry practically ran out of the Ministry.

 

_*_

 

“Draco!” Harry called. He’d locked onto the apparition coordinates where the key had been activated, so many hours ago.  He hoped Draco was still there.

He heard a groan about four feet to the left of him.

_He’s alright. He is. He has to be._

“ _Lumos_ ,” he said into the darkness, and to his surprise a bedroom lit up around his wand.

“God, put that bloody thing away,” Malfoy muttered from the bed, his voice garbled with sleep. “Merlin, Potter.”

“Draco?” He noticed a lampshade by the bed, and waved it on. The room now bathed in warm yellow light, he could actually see his surroundings. Draco, apparently, had fallen asleep still in his clothes on top of his bedcovers. His face was buried in his arms, blonde hair sticking up between his elbows.

 “I got a call…”

“Yeah, six fucking hours ago, you prat.”

“I was at work,” Harry muttered defensively. “It’s six hours ahead in Britain. I got called in for a night shift.” He walked to the bed and sat down next to him, trying to peer at his face and trying to ignore that he was, in fact, sitting on Draco’s bed. “Are you alright? Did you go fighting again?”

“Of course I did, you imbecile. It was fine, I shouldn’t have called you. Go to bed.” Draco’s voice was still muffled by the bedcovers. Harry noticed that his smallest finger on his right hand was wrapped haphazardly to Draco’s ring finger, and much of his hand was swollen and blue.

“Do you want me to re-wrap that for you?” Harry asked. “It’s crooked; it’s not going to heal well like that. Did you not have any Skele-Gro?”

“Ah, now you care.”

“I—”

“No, shut up, shut up, Potter. It’s fine. I don’t need your help.”

“I did get stunned in the chest point-blank right when you called, if that makes you feel better.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Of course.”

Draco thought he could actually hear a little wheeze in his breath if he tried hard enough. He knew he was being petty and vindictive, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Good.”

Harry _tsked_ and huffed, but made no comment. “I’m sorry. I should’ve come sooner, but I couldn’t. We’ll have to figure something else out.”

“The key is fine. Go back to bed, Potter.”

“Obviously it’s not,” Harry frowned. “Here, just let me help you with your hand. It shouldn’t be left like that.”

Draco sighed in a very put-upon way, muttering “sod off, Potter,” even as he rolled over, presenting his hand to Harry but still keeping his face turned away.

“Can’t bear to look at me?” Harry asked blandly.

“Nope, too ugly,” Draco retorted, but there was no bite in his voice.

Harry snickered. “I’ll get clean bandages. The kit’s in the bathroom?” 

Draco grunted an affirmative, and Harry summoned it. Taking Draco’s hand gently in his own, he unwrapped the injured finger as carefully as he could, wincing at the awkward angle he found it in. “I’m going to wrap it to your ring finger again. I’ll have to move it, so it’ll hurt, but I’ll go slow.”

“Just do it. I’ve gotten worse,” Draco sighed.

Harry did, and he didn’t like the rapid breath he heard Draco take, but the blonde didn’t protest. Harry wrapped it as firmly as he dared. “I can come back tomorrow with some Skele-Gro. You don’t have any in the kit.”

“I can get it myself. I have clinical at the hospital tomorrow.”

Harry sighed. “You know, this conversation would be a lot easier if you’d actually face me.”

“Sod off,” he repeated. Draco didn’t want to look at him. He was angry at him when he came to help him and he was angry when he didn’t. He didn’t know why he felt what he did, pride and hurt and bitterness all mingling together, but he was too tired to keep it off his face, and he knew it.

“You haven’t healed your face yet.” It was a statement more than a question, an educated guess put into certainty, and so Draco didn’t deign to respond. Of course he hadn’t. He’d taken a few swigs of gin, stitched himself up as best he could, and passed out face down on the bed as his own method of healing.

 _I didn’t mean to hurt him_.

“I can help you, Draco,” Harry said softly.

Draco scowled mutinously. He wanted to heal the bruises, but every time he’d reached for his kit hours ago, the man’s wail of pain rang in his head and he just couldn’t do it.

He was still bothered that Harry hadn’t shown up when he called, but obviously he’d been in some sort of altercation, so it wasn’t his fault, not really. “Why? For the life debt? Or for Teddy?”

A line appeared between Harry’s eyebrows. “For you.”

Draco turned his head sharply to scrutinize him. Even Potter wasn’t that altruistic—there had to be a catch.

“Christ, Draco, that looks horrendous.”

Sickly orange and green blossomed on his jaw from early in the fight, when his opponent had rattled his teeth. But the bruises were overshadowed by his eye, a lump like an egg on his brow bone that was turning light blue, the blood from it pooling around the socket in dark purple streaks. The stitches Draco had done himself were not as neat as Harry expected of a healer-in-training, seemingly well aligned but were upon closer reflection haphazard, as though done with a shaking hand. The unruly lines were of dark, strong thread, and stood out on his pale, delicate skin. Even with the salves Draco had in his kit to speed cell regeneration, he would have a scar across his eyebrow, Harry knew.

“It’s fine,” Draco muttered. “Don’t talk about it.”

Harry pursed his lips, concern written on his face, and tried not to argue. “Will you let me heal it?”

Draco sucked his teeth unhappily and wrinkled his nose, but he muttered, “Just get on with it.”

Harry nodded, relieved he could at least do that. Seeing Draco’s face like that forced the air out of his lungs, and in its place, a heavy and painful urge to protect him threw itself down and made itself at home. Which, Harry was certain, was the last thing Draco wanted.

He couldn’t admit that Draco’s fighting both deeply troubled him and kind of—if he was honest—turned him on, at least when he won.

Harry didn’t know if he’d won this past night. He didn’t look like it, but he wasn’t about to ask. 

As Draco felt Harry’s rough, gentle hands healing his brow, he couldn’t help but sigh. The frustrating pressure around his eye was gone, as was the ache and the heat. He was grateful for it, but he wasn’t sure how long he would have waited to do it himself, if Harry hadn’t come. At least he’d managed to stitch himself up before he fell asleep.

He reluctantly pushed himself up to a sitting position, finally acknowledging that he was fully awake. He got a good look at Harry’s face for the first time since he’d been there, and he looked exhausted. Bloodshot eyes were staring intently at the bruised skin of his jaw, the green standing out even more than usual. There were bags under them, and his hair somehow looked even messier than it always was. He had an angry red line across his forehead, evidence of a gash recently healed, though his face and arms still had little scrapes on them he obviously hadn’t taken the time to mend.

“What time is it?” Draco asked softly, trying not to move his jaw much under Harry’s ministrations.

“About four in the morning here,” Harry answered. “There, you should be good now.”

Draco nodded, working his jaw from side to side gently. “Have you slept?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve been up all night with the suspect we just brought in.”

Draco sighed. “You should have just gone to sleep.”

“I was worried.”

Draco grunted irritably. He didn’t like the tight, fluttery feeling he got in his stomach when Harry said that.“I have to go to the hospital for five anyway.” Hesitantly, somewhat reluctantly, he asked “Are you hungry?”

Harry blinked. “Yes, actually, but—”

“I’ll make us eggs, then.” He walked out of the room, avoiding Harry’s questioning gaze. “Do you want tea?”

“Er, sure. Two…two sugars, please.”

Draco nodded. “You can sit on the couch or at the table. I need to clean the bedcovers, I got blood all over them,” Draco said, more to himself than Harry. It would not be fun getting that out.

Harry picked the couch. By the time Draco had finished making the first plate of eggs, he was already asleep, head thrown back on the cushions, glasses askew.

Draco stared at him for a moment before deciding to get ready without waking him. If he woke up before he left, he could shoo him home. If not, well, obviously he needed sleep more than he needed to apparate.

If Draco was perfectly honest, he knew he hadn’t been pleasant to deal with. Especially after the night Harry seemed to have had.

Harry hadn’t meant to leave him. The least he could do was let him stay when he finally did show up.

 

_*_

 

Harry woke up alone, his face pressed into the cushion of a very comfortable leather couch, a fleece blanket strewn over him. His glasses made angry red marks on his face, and his neck had a crick in it, but despite that he felt surprisingly well-rested.

Sitting up, it took him a moment to get his bearings. Nothing looked familiar. He twisted his neck to peer around the room, and then the night before came rushing back.

"Draco?" he called, receiving no answer. He got up, one hand trying to smooth down the bed head he knew he had. "Draco?"

A clock on the wall caught his eye. It was nearly noon - he'd been asleep for hours! Why hadn't Draco woken him up?

A thought struck him as he walked through the silence of the apartment that Draco was probably not home - he vaguely remembered something about the hospital being mentioned the night before. He couldn't believe Draco would actually trust him enough to let him stay there all by himself. Just that realization made him pull his arms in closer, trying not to mess anything up he wasn't supposed to - but it also made him happy, too.

He realized he’d never been to Draco’s apartment before. The only thing decorating the room he had woken up in besides the couch and armchair was a small rug, a table, and a very well-stocked bookshelf, overflowing with books on medicine and healing, both magic and muggle. He could see some of his old Potions textbooks, and some transfiguration and charms ones, too. And a surprising amount of novels, both by wizards and famous muggles. He even found, laying beside the armchair, a leather-bound Bible with a mark in it. Curious, he picked it up and flipped through it—Draco had underlined some bits, made notations in the margins in his elegant cursive. He smiled at some of the notes, unabashedly irreverent. And he puzzled over others.

Harry ran his fingers over the feather-light pages, thin as tissue. He was struck that Draco hadn’t just purchased the book, but was reading it, _studying_ it. When had this happened?

When had Draco stopped fearing muggles? When had he started learning about them, turning to religion, of all things?

Harry wasn’t all that religious—the Dursleys had brought him to church every now and then, but it wasn’t something he actively continued. He knew some other wizards who were religious. Seamus, for one, was proud Irish Catholic. Dressed up and went to church every week, the whole nine yards. But the people he’d met who did were usually more…tolerant than he’d ever thought Draco capable.

That really was quite a gigantic step for him, after his upbringing. He thought, in a reluctant and vaguely ashamed sort of way, that Lucius’ sickness may have actually helped Draco’s development into a likeable human being.

Harry’s stomach rumbled and his mouth felt dry, and so he carefully laid the book down and peeled off the blanket while shuffling over to the bathroom, intending to just splash his face to wake up before apparating away. He noticed, however, that a plate of eggs and tea was still on the table under a warming charm, alongside a note.

_Potter—_

_Breakfast. I won’t be back until later. Didn’t want to wake you._

_—D_

 

Harry’s mouth lifted at the corners, something a little less than a smile, but amused nonetheless. He was surprised; he hadn’t taken Draco for thoughtful enough (or trusting enough) to make him breakfast and let him sleep here. Though maybe that was his way of saying thank you, since Harry had never, ever heard him utter anything close to that phrase in his life.

He sat down to eat, surprised to find that it was actually well-cooked. He hadn’t even known Draco _could_ cook, sure that he’d lived with house elves at his beck and call all his life. Though there were none here, he noticed, at least no trace of any that he could find.

He drank his tea slowly, walking around the flat. It was the neatest place he’d ever seen someone actually live. The walls alternated between white and a soft, light grey color that reminded Harry of Draco’s eyes. The furniture was elegant, though a bit sparse. There was some artwork on the walls, very good pieces of landscapes and still lives, and he realized that he recognized the style from the Manor. Narcissa had explained to him that she found muggle painting relaxing, both the process and the end result, how the images seemed to trap one moment in time rather than the motion of the magical paintings she was used to.

She really was very talented, Harry thought. And Draco must have cared for her very much to decorate his home with her paintings, even if he often seemed rather distant. They were both difficult people to read for Harry, Narcissa and her son.

He felt like he was prying, exploring Draco’s flat while he wasn’t there. It made Harry uncomfortable, and eventually the sensation overtook his curiosity. He already had found out much more in a half hour about the other man’s life than their previous conversations had ever given him.

Harry wrote out a _thank you_ underneath Draco’s note, complimenting the breakfast. Just because Draco couldn’t find it in him to have manners didn’t mean Harry couldn’t. And, Harry admitted, at least the other man seemed to be trying now. It seemed difficult for him to let Harry heal him, and yet he’d done so.

 _Trust looks different on Draco than it does other people_ , he reminded himself. _That might be the first time he's ever really trusted me._

Besides, this was the first time Harry really felt that he was making progress. He was pleased with that. And Harry remembered Draco’s hand in his own. The way Draco had sighed under his touch as he healed him. The creamy pale skin under his fingertips. He remembered those intense grey eyes, that ferocious grin, the wild hair. The way his laugh rang like bells.

And Harry finally admitted that he wasn’t just in this for Teddy’s sake anymore.

 


	10. Chapter 10

10.

 

Harry got him a mobile.

“It’s muggle, but it works better than anything,” Harry explained, pushing the flip phone to him. “I’ve already put my number in it, under my name. You can either call me, which is like firecalling except it’s just our voices, or you can send me a typed message. It sends the message straight to my device when you hit the little green button. It’s faster than owling, more convenient than firecalling, and doesn’t require nearly as much concentration as a Patronus. Plus, that way you can explain the context too, and we can have an actual conversation if I can’t get there. You can even use it in magical places, now that the Unspeakables have made a good charm to keep it stable.”

Draco took it suspiciously. He didn’t open it, but he did slip it into his pocket.

“Will you use it?”

“Probably not.”

“Will you answer it if I send you a message?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. Harry found that one of them was noticeably lacking a scar—glamour, no doubt.

“If it’s you? Definitely not.” Draco’s tone was neutral, but Harry still couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.

Harry shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“I have standards, Potter,” he said aloofly. “That’s all.” He swept away, robes swirling around him as he retreated further into the Manor.

“Message me if you’re going…” Harry called, trailing off. He didn’t want to shout Draco’s bad habits through the Manor. He hoped he heard him, though, because he received no response.

_At least he took it_ , Harry thought. He’d believed, after seeing all the muggle books in Draco’s apartment, that he’d be more amenable to muggle technology. But then again, Draco had been raised with tradition in mind. Books were one thing, but science was a whole different beast.

But at least he had it if he needed it. That was what was important.

_*_

Draco got a bloody nose when he saw the cigarette man scowling in the crowd and stumbled. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt it on his chin. But he got back up and risked another one to make sure the cigarette man was watching.

_You say I’m not a fighter?_

Duck, one-two. Step. Circle. Duck. Dodge. Step.

_You know_ nothing _._

A hit to the knee. One to the chest. He rolled with the punches. He felt the pain, and turned it to anger.

This fight wasn’t elegant, but then, they never were. They were brutal. This one, especially so.

Especially Draco.

He beat the shit out of his opponent, and made sure his enemies knew it.

He heard his father’s voice in his head, but he didn’t care.

Bella’s cruel laughter rang in his ears, and he punched his opponent straight in the mouth.

He wasn’t going to back down anymore.

_Fuck you_.

_*_

Harry was there, called with the key, probably to prove a point. He watched Draco fight like a man possessed. It was frightening, it was intimidating, and Harry should not at all have enjoyed it as much as he did.

This was madness, anyway. He was enabling Draco, or something like it, Harry wasn’t sure. He shouldn’t be anywhere near this ring—Harry didn’t know what had happened that night leading up to finding Draco in the warehouse, but he would bet his best broomstick it was because of this place. It wasn’t safe.

Harry knew this. He also knew he hadn’t felt nearly as anxious about it the last time he watched Draco fight.

Draco collected his sweatshirt and his winnings, a large lump of cash bound tightly in a paper bag and with elastics. Harry watched him duck under the rope and make a beeline through the crowd for a door, and followed him, pushing and shoving.

He found himself in a locker room, standing over the other man, who was slumped onto one of the benches and leaning his cheek on the cold metal of a nearby locker. His eyes were closed and he looked strangely peaceful for someone who had been locked in combat just minutes ago.

“Do you want to talk about any of this?” he asked him just loud enough to be heard over the muted cacophony behind the door. His voice sounded shaky, and he didn’t know a name for the emotion behind it.

“No,” Draco responded simply, wiping the blood off his knuckles with long, delicate fingers. The sight was incongruous, those elegant fingers, the dark red of blood, and it stuck behind Harry’s eyelids every time he blinked after he saw it that night.

“This is dangerous, Draco. Those people—whoever they were—they have to know you come here. They’ve been watching you.” This new Draco, the one he was getting to know, was nowhere near the refined, prissy person he’d once been. In the ring, he was fearless, unrestrained…feral, even. Completely unrestricted, as Harry had never seen him before. But Harry could bet he’d retained all the intelligence he had in school, and that meant he could identify a threat when one was lurking, as Harry could.

“I know,” he replied simply.

“So…What are you going to do?” Harry asked.

Draco didn’t like this conversation. It was one he’d had with himself too many times. He was already nervous, just waiting for the cigarette man to burst in. Every second here was a second closer to getting caught. He didn’t want to hash it out again with Harry, not when his pulse was still pounding, when his skin tingled with pain and sweat, and his mind was jagged with adrenaline. “I have a question for you, Potter,” he retorted, standing up so they were face to face, much too close for comfort, only centimeters away. Harry stepped backwards, and Draco stepped with him.

He’d noticed the way Harry had started looking at him, of course he had, he wore all his emotions right on his face. He had a suspicion…one that he normally wouldn’t bet on. But now wasn’t normal. Now his blood was boiling and his nerves were on fire and he felt fucking _invincible_.

He ran a hand up Harry’s arm, feeling him stiffen underneath him, reveling in the feel of his biceps. He leaned in closer, their mouths almost touching. Harry was stiff as a board underneath his fingers, and so close Draco could tell he was holding his breath. His fingers trailed up his shoulder, up his neck.

“What are you going to do?” Draco asked, and kissed him.

It didn’t matter what he had to lose. His blood was singing, his nerves electrified, and it felt _right_.

Harry reached for him, grabbed his body to him and deepened the kiss. The slide of his lips on his, the faint burn of his stubble on his chin and cheeks, the softness of his tongue…He was intoxicated.

They parted, both breathing heavily. Draco moved away, and though Harry tried to hug him closer, he escaped.

He had a funny half-smile on his lips as he said, “I’ll see you around, Scarhead.”

Before Harry could say anything to make him stay, he _popped_ out of existence.

Harry was alone save for the muffled clamor on the other side of the door, his arms empty, his head spinning.

He ran his hands through his hair roughly, letting out a sound of frustration.

Draco’s question, his own question, rang in his ears.

_What are you going to do?_

_*_

“He just—he makes bad decisions.”

“I think that’s a pretty generous description, Harry,” Hermione said. “But I think you should remember that sometimes _you_ don’t make the best decisions, either.”

Harry shrugged. “I get along fine.”

“Yes, well, I do still remember sixth year. As much as it would be great if you could become friends, he’s a person, not a project. If he’s refusing your help, that means he doesn’t want it. It doesn’t mean you should continue chasing after him.”

Harry chewed his lip. “I don’t think he knows what he wants. It’s…he’s hard to read.”

“Well, he brought you to that barbaric fight club. So he wanted you to see him.”

“I know, I did.” Harry pushed the image from his mind. Alluring as he found it, he didn’t want to be distracted. “And he’s getting a bit less prickly around me. He let me heal him, a few nights ago, when he basically passed out on his bed.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a pretty big leap of faith for Malfoy.”

“Well, I practically begged him, which I’m sure helped.”

“Oh, I’m sure it did.”

Harry stared at the flat of his kitchen table, still worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You want to say something else, Harry. I can see it in your face.”

“I know,” Harry sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face. “I’m sorry, ’Mione.”

“It’s okay, but if it’s bothering you so much, it might be better just to talk about it.”

“I think…I think I’m getting too invested. I don’t know if I should…if it’s a good idea for me to continue this, or if I should get Narcissa or Andy to talk to him from now on.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose further. “Harry, you’ve always been too invested with Malfoy.” She cocked her head curiously, thinking. “Is he gay?”

Hermione has known for a while about Harry’s preferences; she was always so observant, she probably recognized it before he had. But after he and Ginny had fallen out, he’d done some soul-searching, and come to the conclusion that maybe he was denying some part of himself that needed to be acknowledged. He had thought that maybe one day, after he sorted himself out, they could have another chance. He was still attracted to her, after all—but for now it just wasn’t right for either of them. Especially not with the complications Draco threw into the mix. He knew he’d changed, and Hermione believed him, but he knew the Weasleys would take much more convincing. Ginny and Ron in particular.

“I dunno—I think so, yeah. Bi, maybe. I don’t know. He might just be having me on or something, maybe.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “And you think so because he did something? To you?”

Thank Merlin Hermione was so perceptive. He would never have been able to admit any of this himself. Harry blushed furiously, and that was enough of an answer. “Ah,” Hermione said. “That would do it.”

Harry continued miserably staring at the table.

“I think you need to decide first what you want to do with the information Draco’s given you. You could ignore it and pretend it didn’t happen. Or you could acknowledge it and say it was a spur of the moment sort of thing and won’t happen again.” Harry was shaking his head, and she saw. “Or, thirdly, you could try to make something of it, though with Teddy around and your involvement with Lucius’ health, I think that route would be best taken cautiously, and only if you mean to have an actual, meaningful relationship, which honestly I’m not sure Draco is capable of.”

“I know.”

“What do you want, Harry?”

He thought about Draco’s smile, the one he’d shown Teddy. His fighting. The immature way he acted when he was drunk, the perpetual cold-shoulder he gave Harry. The way he reached to Harry with one hand and shoved him away with the other. The feel of his skin. His bruises, and the way they made Harry’s stomach turn. His sharp eyes, always so expressive. His mouth, his cutting words, his soft lips. The bells in his laughter. He wasn’t sure what sort of a relationship he wanted with Draco, but—

_I don’t really know him_. And for some reason, the thought made him sad. So many years they’d known each other, been obsessed with each other, but they didn’t know, not really.

“I just, I don’t know what to do without this all ending in flames,” Harry admitted, which was also true.

Hermione bit her lip. “That’s a distinct possibility, I’m afraid.”


	11. Chapter 11

11.

 

Draco dreaded going back to the Manor, but he had to do it. He had to get it over with.

He stepped out of the floo cautiously, brushing off specs of ash and plucking invisible bits of lint off his coat. Walking through the hallways, he caught sight of Narcissa in the garden, where she usually went if she needed to think.

“Mum.” He opened the glass door and stood awkwardly in front of it.

She looked up from her book, placing a mark in it. “Draco. Darling.”

He shook his hair out of his eyes anxiously. “Mother, I—what I said last night was uncalled for. I’m sorry. It was a gross lack of judgment and I shouldn’t have said those terrible things. I just—” He cut off, sorely unable both find the words and continue speaking them.

Narcissa pulled him into a hug, one that surprised Draco immensely. His family wasn’t big on physical contact, and he couldn’t remember the last time his mother had hugged him.

“I know this is hard for you, darling. I just want you to be safe.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I am.”

“Are you?” she asked, scrutinizing him. “Are you really?”

“Yes.” He said it with more conviction than he felt.

She brought a hand up to his face and stroked his cheek, her brow furrowed, eyes concerned.

“The money, Draco.”

His made an effort to keep his expression neutral. “What about it?”

“I went to pay Dr. Fortin the other day, but he told me you’d already paid him.” Noting Draco’s quizzical expression, she elaborated, “Your father’s doctor.”

“Ah, yes,” Draco mumbled. “Him. Of course.”

“Do you know what he was talking about?”

“Mum…”

“Because I’d like to know where you’re getting the money. Our accounts haven’t been touched. And the bill for your tuition this semester was much lower than usual.”

Draco sighed, running his hands through his hair the way Lucius always told him not to. “It’s fine, Mum. I get paid to do clinical.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That much? You obviously already know Dr. Fortin’s pay grade.”

“It’s fine. I promise.” He held her shoulders and stared right into her blue eyes, the color different from his, but the same seriousness and concern mirrored in them. “I promise, Mum.”

“I don’t want you getting involved in anything dangerous again, anything that could hurt you.”

“I’m not.”

“I hope so, baby,” she said, taking his hands off her shoulders and holding them in her own. “I couldn’t protect you then, and I can’t protect you now. That’s up to you.”

“Mum, you know that’s not—” She lied to Voldemort’s face to protect him, and she thought she failed?

“It is, and I know it,” she interrupted. “Your father and I both made terrible mistakes. Lucius was convinced what he was doing was right, and I let him lead us both into it. Don’t make our mistakes, darling.”

Draco swallowed, an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “I won’t,” he said, his voice unpleasantly hoarse. “I promise.”

She looked unsatisfied and still worried, but, slowly, she nodded.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

 

_*_

 

The next time Harry saw him, he was with Teddy.

They were walking in the park by Andromeda’s house, enjoying the first sunny day in very long time. Harry had taken Sirius’ motorcycle out instead of apparating, struck by the same idea. He was wearing his jacket and helmet, so it made sense neither one of them spotted him, whereas Teddy had fluorescent pink hair that day, and Draco’s bright blonde head always stuck out.

Teddy was nearly four and a very well-built little boy. Harry always spoiled him with snacks and treats. It was too hard for him to say no to him, not when he got so very excited by an unexpected ice cream cone or candy bar, his little face lighting up. He was still hyperactive enough that he ran most of it off, but he was getting heavy to pick up—Harry knew from experience.

And yet, he was still on Draco’s shoulders. Draco’s hands were wrapped around the little boy’s ankles, secure but gentle, and his hair was mussed from the small grubby hands clinging onto it the way Teddy did when he forgot himself, who was gesturing enthusiastically with a wide smile, his hair shimmering different colors like it did when he was excited.

Harry had seen Draco in disarray before, but he only looked this unperturbed around Teddy. Happy contentment was spread across his features, so usually schooled into that frigid blank expression he was so good at. He walked with casual grace, the muscles in his shoulders and back more relaxed than Harry had ever seen, despite the load he was carrying.  

And, Harry realized, he was beautiful.

Not hot, like he was in the ring. Not sexy like he was when they kissed. And he still had his scars. He was still just a little too pale, a little too sharp. But happiness softened the sharp planes of his face, the flush from laughter spread across his cheeks making his pale skin less jarring and more inviting. His messy hair blowing around his face gently, tugged by the breeze, catching the sunlight.  

Seeing him, Harry was struck by the thought that he was making things much more difficult than they needed to be.

He _wanted_ him. He wanted to know him. Yes, they had history. But history was in the past. And here was this beautiful, stubborn, enigmatic, passionate person. Someone who was damaged, for sure, but Harry didn’t know if he could connect with anyone who wasn’t anymore.

He wasn’t Malfoy—he had been once, a few evolutionary stages ago, but now he was Draco. And Draco was someone Harry wanted to be with.

It didn’t have to be any more complicated than that.

  
_*_

 

“Harry!”

“Uh—” Draco winced as the little hands in his hair yanked suddenly. He felt sure that his right side was now distinctly lacking a few locks. “ _Ow_ , Teddy.”

“Sorry! But it’s Harry!”

Draco grunted an acknowledgement and knelt to let the boy down, determinedly avoiding looking in the direction he was tugging. “Go on, then.”

“Yes! Harry!” The kid’s hair turned bright green as he sprinted over on stubby legs towards the entrance of the park. As Draco stood, his eyes caught on Harry’s. His hair was wayward like always, one side plastered to his head and one side defying gravity like an explosion. He had a motorcycle helmet under one arm.

 _He looks good_ , Draco thought distantly, noticing the jacket. But he was distracted by the crinkle next to Harry’s eyes, the way he grinned at him before turning his head to look down at Teddy and scoop him into a hug.

Draco shook his head. _Don’t make this into something_ , he reminded himself. _It doesn’t have to be anything. Just a kiss._

Harry put the boy down, running his hand through his hair and laughing, starting to walk forward with Teddy’s hand in his. Their eyes met again.

 _It was just a kiss_.

“Hey,” Harry said, coming up to him. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” he said, a little more forcefully than he meant. “How’re you?”

Harry quirked an eyebrow, disliking how suddenly formal Draco acted. “Good. How’s your walk, Teddy?”

“Fan _tastic_!” Teddy exclaimed, his word of the week. “Draco and I are having so much fun!” He then began to detail all of their exploits for the day, just simple errands, but Teddy narrated them as though they were daring expeditions.  Harry listened with a smile, but watched Draco out of the corner of his eye.

The other man looked uncomfortable, biting his lip and rubbing his arm, staring at the ground. Whatever epiphany Harry had just come to, it seemed Draco didn’t reciprocate—at least not yet.

“Hey, Teddy,” he said. “Do you want to play on those swings over there for a minute?”

“Yes!” the little boy said, just like Harry hoped he would. He was such an agreeable, happy kid—he made him happy just being around him. “Will you both come with me?”

“In a second, alright? I want to talk to Draco for a minute. We’ll be watching you though, okay?”

“Okay!” He skipped off, stumbling in the grass and righting himself before Harry could call to be careful.

Draco finally looked at him then, but didn’t say anything. His eyes steel grey, armored and distant like they used to be—Harry didn’t know when the change had happened, but now that little bit of warmth wasn’t there, he missed it.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked gently.

“You already are,” Draco replied.

“About the other night,” Harry started, but Draco cut him off.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the apology stunned Harry so much he lost his words. He’d literally never heard Draco apologize, not even at the trials. “I shouldn’t have done that. I was still exhilarated from the fight—it was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

He took a breath. “What if I want it to happen again?”

Draco scowled, scrutinizing him. He pressed his left arm closer to him, still hugging it. “You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Ah…” Draco shook his head. “It wouldn’t be good. For Teddy. I’ve—we’ve started spending more time together, I go over Andromeda’s a few times a week if I can. I don’t want to mess it up.”

Harry bit his lip. This was exactly the thing that had brought him to such a halt before. But he said, “It won’t unless we let it.”

Draco scoffed, looking back down and shaking his head. He brought a hand up to drag through his hair. “That’s not how this sort of thing works.”

“Well, you’ve never done this sort of thing with me before.” Harry stepped toward him, and Draco stepped back. Harry blinked, more hurt than he liked to admit, though Draco hadn’t said anything yet, not really.

“Let me take you out,” he said gently. “It doesn’t have to be much, wherever you want.”

Draco squinted at him, head cocked, shaking it just slightly, as if he didn’t know he was still doing it. “You think because we kissed once we’re dating?”

“No,” Harry said, laughing if a bit nervously. “Of course not. But it made me realize I might want to, if you give me the chance.”

Draco marveled at how easy it seemed for Harry to say things like that. He had trouble even admitting his feelings to himself, let alone anyone else. Which is why he said, deeply troubled and unable to look Harry in the face, “I…” Deep breath. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Harry sucked on his bottom lip, again trying not to show that he was hurt—of course Draco would be cautious, he knew he would be. “I thought the same thing about introducing you to Teddy,” he coaxed, “but the two of you get along beautifully. If it’s the publicity you’re worried about, I know how to avoid them. No one has to know but us, for now, if that’s what you want.”

Draco felt something drop down in his stomach. _We don’t have anything for anyone to know about_ , he thought stubbornly. Though a small part of him, pushed down and denied, knew that wasn’t true. He bit his lip, took a few steadying breaths, and managed to look Harry in the eye this time when he shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, looking upset. “Not right now, I can’t.”

The words _not right now_ gave Harry hope, at least. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m not going anywhere,” he said with the beginnings of a smile, trying to see if Draco would give him one back. “Alright?”

Draco swallowed, nodded. “Alright.”

“Good,” Harry nodded. Giving him a lingering look and turning away, he called to Teddy. “Do you want me to push you?”

“Yes!” the little boy called excitedly from up in the air.

Draco watched the two of them, one hand still on his left forearm, rubbing warmth into it.

 _Harry Potter just asked me on a date,_ he thought, still rather stunned.

 _And I said no_.


	12. Chapter 12

12.

 

He got called into the Dean’s office later that week. It felt quite a lot like getting called to Severus’ office when he was in trouble, though Severus, unlike the Dean here, was often much more lenient with him than he probably should have been.

The Dean was a portly man with a bottle-brush mustache and sparse brown hair on his head, a bowtie and glasses. Draco didn’t like his office, all white and stiff-backed chairs. It made him uncomfortable, which he supposed was the point.

“Mister Malfoy, you’re going to have to bring your grades up if you want to continue receiving your scholarship.”

He nodded. He hadn’t expected anything less than a dressing-down in this meeting. “I know.”

“There are tutors available if you need help on specific lessons. Their schedules are posted in the student center. You have a month and a half until the semester ends, so you have enough time to get them back up.”

“Yes, professor.”

“Were you planning on continuing your education further?”

Draco hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of just being a standard healer—Vanishing the contents of bedpans and counting out pills was not exactly the job of his dreams. “Yes, professor—I was thinking of getting a Potions Mastery and maybe working as a specialist, if I could.”

The Dean tutted. “You might have to explain on your applications, then, why your grades have slipped this semester. Even if you perform excellently on your final exams, you’ve still failed a midterm, from what I can see on your record. Is there any specific problem in this class you’re having?”

Draco gritted his teeth. He knew everything the Dean was saying to him already, but it still pained him to hear it out of someone else’s mouth. “No, the class is fine. I have an explanation, it’s alright.”

He nodded. “It may not be my place, but we have services other than just tutors available for struggling students—professor office hours, the career center. And of course the counseling center is available if you need it, not that I’m saying you do.”

Draco nodded, trying his best to stay polite. “I know.” _It is not your place at all._

_Counseling center_. He didn’t need counseling. He needed his father to be fine, the war to be out of his head, and Harry Potter out of his life.

“You’re a good student, Draco. You have a lot of potential. Don’t waste it.”

_God_ , he needed to hit something.

_*_

He was trying not to go, but the ring was calling him. He went for a run instead. He ran and ran and ran until his legs felt weak and his knees started to buckle.

He needed to stop thinking, but today wasn’t a good day. He couldn’t lose himself in the exercise like he usually could. He stayed away from the ring that day, because he knew that if he went, he would almost certainly get the crap kicked out of him.

But nothing he did helped.

He took a shower, as hot as he could stand.

It was a bad idea, but he thought maybe if he touched himself he could stop thinking, finally.

He usually just remembered one of the nameless men from the clubs he went to occasionally, dancing, touching, making out. One of his favorite memories was with one man who pushed him against the wall and held him there as they kissed, his body blocking out everything Draco could see or smell but him, his broad chest, his muscled arms and the scent of his cologne. That, and the night they’d had after.

Draco thought about that, focused on how the man’s lips felt on his, his hands on his body. How the music and crowd in his memory was faded, muted. Their breathing. Their movements. Their closeness.

But his face and his body changed against Draco’s will in his memory. It was Harry’s face, those stupid glasses pressing into his cheek, his body, his hands. His soft lips. The way that he gasped against him, just a little.

_Let me take you out_.

His mind spun to how it would feel if they kissed again, if he was in those arms again, solid around him and pressing their bodies together. What it would be like to feel Harry’s stubble rub against his cheek as they kissed, Draco’s hands running through that soft, thick hair. The warm feel of his lips on his, his tongue, his mouth.

_No one has to know_.

Draco screwed his eyes shut. “I hate you,” he murmured, his voice breathy in his ears.

Harry’s smile, the one that took up most of his face. Made his eyes burn an even brighter green than usual, the skin at the corners crinkling sweetly. The kind he thought he saw directed at him, that day.

The fine scars on his hands, the calluses on his fingers. Ones made from fighting, from Auror training, from hard living. Rough on the sensitive skin of Draco’s face but so gentle.

“I hate you,” he repeated, his voice shaking.

The worry on his face, concern in his eyes. The way his stupid hair never looked presentable. His scent, still on those clothes Draco shoved in the back of his dresser.

How he hadn’t been there when Draco called.

_He promised_.

 “I hate you, I _hate_ you.”

He thought about how much he would like it if Harry would wrap him up in his arms and kiss him until he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t speak. If he held him tightly, the way he’d tried that night, and Draco didn’t run away. If Draco stayed, and they kissed and touched, the feel of his body, around him, inside him—

Draco covered his mouth with his free hand, nails digging into his cheek.

When he came, it was obliterating.

He leaned against the wall of the shower, one arm braced against it, forehead on forearm. He stared at the Dark Mark branded on the inside of his arm. Closed his eyes and let the water pound down onto his back, trying not to think about what he’d just done.

Draco stretched his neck back to feel the water on his face.

_That bastard._

Draco turned off the shower.

_*_

Harry was wondering, yet again, if he’d done the wrong thing.

He hadn’t seen Draco in over a week now. He hoped he hadn’t been fighting, that he’d just been staying in America, going to classes and clinical, staying safe. He texted him a few times, once to apologize if he made him feel uncomfortable that day with Teddy, and once to ask him to tell him if he was thinking of doing something dangerous, please Draco. He didn’t get a response for either.

He just…he didn’t know what to _do_. No one he cared about had ever fought him like Draco did. Even when he and Ron were fighting, he knew how Ron felt, at least. With this, he didn’t know. He didn’t even know if Draco knew.

God, Draco was so _difficult_.

_But_ , Harry thought, _he could be so worth it, if he ever lets me in._

Harry sighed and tried to get back to his paperwork. He was tasked with researching the background and potential leads of one of the men who had gotten away on the raid, one Michael Cavanaugh. Obviously not his actual name, but the one he adopted within his criminal gang. Supposedly one of the bigger guys involved, he’d gotten a whiff of a rat in the system and had fled long before the raid. They knew nothing much about him, save for a sketch that had been constructed by what his fellows described of him in custody for the price of a lessened sentence or some small measures of immunity.

They were systematically investigating his flat and contacting his known family members for potential information on where he may have gone, but it was slow going. Lucky for Harry, only a very select few people had clearance to apparate from country to country uninhibited, and with a warrant for his arrest, the floos were under surveillance for anything that matched his magical signature, remnants of which they’d found at the sites but lacking in their database and therefore woefully unable to link to an actual identity—meaning this man wasn’t a national. Some of his companions said he was paranoid and performed spells to distort his voice, but other said he sounded American. Which meant that they would have to go through a whole slew of paperwork before they could even think about consulting the American National Agency for Magical Privacy and Protection. But no matter. They had the signature. If the alarm went off, no matter who he looked like, he was there man.

Thankfully, the registered portkeys in the area were either not common knowledge or the local Auror subsection was notified to place wards around them. So unless he used a muggle form of transportation or a broomstick, which would be very difficult—if not deadly—in the freezing weather, he was still in the country, for sure.

But Harry didn’t care about Michael Cavanaugh, not today.

That was why, when he felt the key heat up in his pocket, he snapped his folder closed, locked up his files, and nearly ran to the door.

“Leaving early?” Michelle called.

“Babysitting!” Harry replied, waving over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow!”

Down the hall and to the bathroom, he shut the stall and palmed the key.

 


	13. Chapter 13

13.

 

Draco looked up at him from his spot on the couch, one eye peeking out from under his fringe. Elbows on his knees, he was holding a bottle of red wine by the neck in one hand, his lips stained from it. He nodded to the seat next to him.

“Sit.”

Harry did so, looking at the bottle. “I thought Malfoys were too refined to do things like that.”

One corner of his lips curled in a bitter, almost half-smile. “Malfoys are too refined to fight, too.”

“Are you thinking about going?”

Draco nodded. “Tonight. Soon.”

Harry leant back, letting out a long breath. _Of course_. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not much. Just a bit to take the edge off.”

“You know I think it’s a bad idea.”

He tilted his head back, exposing the long, pale column of his throat. Chin up: It was a challenge. “You know I think you’re a bad idea, but you’re still here.”

“That’s different.”

Draco shrugged. “To you, maybe.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose I’ll be able to convince you.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t suppose you will,” he mocked, taking another swig.

Harry nodded, staring at the other man’s hands. His thin, graceful fingers looked delicate wrapped around the bottle. He still didn’t like it, seeing Draco get hurt, and his dislike seemed to mount every time he went to the ring. But he always liked seeing him win, that euphoric moment right afterwards where nothing could touch him, breath heavy and eyes wild, where he was intense, ferocious, blazing.

“There’s another thing.”

Harry scrutinized him. Draco determinedly ignored his gaze.

“Those men---the ones you helped me with—I’ve seen one of them again.”

Harry’s eyes widened, scanning him over. He felt every muscle tense. “They didn’t hurt you?”

He knew Draco could take care of himself, he did. But if they _hurt him_ —

“I left before he could.”

“Jesus, Draco,” Harry spat, frustrated. “And you _still_ keep going? Do you have a death wish?”

Draco _tsked_. “No,” he said, staring at the bottle, swirling its contents. “I don’t.”

He didn’t offer any explanation to go with it.

“Then _why_?” Harry prompted.

Draco sighed, looking quite put-upon. He had thought about telling Harry that he was attracted to him, right before now. That’s why he’d started the bottle. But as he drank he didn’t get any less scared, and he always knew the remedy for that.

Plus, this way, he could still have Harry near him.

“Does it matter? I’m going back. I’d like backup, just in case.”

Harry pursed his lips, still wanting to argue, but managed, “Of course I’ll go with you.”

“I don’t—you should cast a disillusionment charm over yourself, though. And stay away from the brunt of the crowd, somewhere you can see.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Draco clenched his jaw, glaring at the floor. “I want to meet this man, their boss.”

Harry shook his head disbelievingly, holding out his hands, trying to understand. “ _Why_ , Draco?”

Asking that question seemed to be all he was doing, and he was sick of it. He had wanted so many things from Draco, but now, right now, he just wanted to protect him. How could he make something so simple so difficult?

Draco looked at him then, teeth still gritted. “I’m not going to let anyone bully me into anything. Not anymore. I won’t leave just because some thug told me to.”

That response took Harry aback, though it shouldn’t have. The steel in Draco’s eyes was nothing new. Harry thought, considered. And he decided Draco was being unnecessarily stubborn, unnecessarily reckless—even if he did have good intentions. “Draco, you don’t know anything about these people except that they’re bad men. You could be vastly underestimating them.”

“Good thing I’ll have the most powerful wizard alive with me, then.”

Harry scoffed. “I’m not—”

“Humility is unbecoming, Potter.” He put the bottle down with a _thunk_ and stood up in one swift motion. “Do you want to cast the charm, or should I?”

Harry took a deep breath and hoped he wouldn’t regret this. “No need.”

“What?” Draco’s voice was cutting. “You _promi_ —“

“I’m still going!” Harry exclaimed, interrupting him. “I have something better than a charm, but it’s at my flat. Give me a few minutes.”

Draco hesitated, but eventually nodded. “Alright.”

_*_

“The minute something goes wrong, I’m getting you out of there.”

“I get it, Potter.”

 “No, you don’t. They don’t get to hurt you this time.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress, waiting for you to save me, Scarhead. I can handle myself. You’re just my backup. Remember that.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but thankfully Draco couldn’t see it. Harry was already crouched under the cloak, its hem much too short now for him to fit underneath easily. They were in the locker room, empty except for them and one other fighter who had vacated shortly after their appearance.

Draco took a couple deep breaths. He stared at the space above Harry’s right shoulder, a flash of uncharacteristic vulnerability crossing his face. “Harry?”

Harry’s breath caught. Draco never called him that, never.

The sound sent a happy jolt through him, one that short-circuited all of his other impulses. He ripped the cloak off his head, knocking his glasses askew, hoping to hear it again and this time while Draco could look at him properly. “Yes?”

Draco took two swift steps and kissed him hard. He was there and gone before Harry could even reach a hand up to his hair, his closeness so sudden but so sorely missed once it was gone.

Draco swallowed heavily. “For luck,” he said.

He walked out biting his lip and fiddling with the bindings on his hands, tightness apparent in his shoulders.

Harry’s lips tingled.

_*_

Harry watched the fight up on the second floor where it was less crowded. He had his cloak stowed, temporarily—no use using it if people were just going to knock into you, he figured.

Draco didn’t look victorious when he won this time. He looked grim.

This may have just been to prove a point, but in Draco’s mind, it needed to be done.

 

Draco saw them in the alley, and this time he was ready with a knife in one pocket and wand in the other, just in case. If violence was what they were going to resort to, he wasn’t doing anything without a fight.

“Boss wants to speak to you personally,” he cigarette man said.

“Where is he?”

He jerked his head. “Not in the open. This way.”

Draco eyed them. “I’ll follow the two of you.” He gripped his wand, still concealed. He heard a faint shuffle next to him and resisted the urge to look. He wouldn’t see anything, anyway.

They lead him to a warehouse, maybe the same one he’d been in before, he didn’t know enough to know. A well-dressed man with a few others waited for them.

Draco walked up to him, his back straight, chin up, every bit the aristocrat even with his black eyes and bloody fingers. It was like he flipped a switch, Harry marveled from a few steps away. He was just far enough not to be discovered, and managed to stay there even though he really just wanted to get them both out of there. He had to respect Draco’s decision.

The well-dressed man looked him up and down. With intelligent eyes and leonine features, he must have once been a handsome man, but age and something else had given him the unnerving look of a predator.

“What is your name?” he asked.

Draco sized him up. Smirked a bit. “Call me David.”

Harry thought of the bookmarked Bible in Draco’s flat. He figured the connection was intentional. _Cocky bastard_.

“Congratulations, David.”

That threw Draco off—his expression changed, just minutely, but it was there for a moment and then hidden swiftly behind his mask again. “What for?”

“A few of my men were assigned to scare you off. You stayed.”

Draco’s eyes sharpened, chin pointed upwards. “I don’t scare easily.”

Harry smirked, thinking of their old banter. _You wish_.

 “That’s good. You fight well.”

 “Thank you. I know.”

“You’re not from around here.” Harry resisted the urge to snort. Stating the obvious—Draco’s posh English lilt sounded nothing like Boston Southie.

“No.”

“Even as good a fighter as you could use some insurance.”

Draco didn’t miss a beat. “I can handle myself fine.”

“It’s not yourself you need to worry about. You or your little stuntman.” Wide-eyed, Harry glanced at Draco, but his face was still meticulously blank. Thank Merlin for Malfoy manners—there was a hint of threat in the man’s voice, and not a faint one, either. “This is my city, boy. If you’re with me, I can offer you protection.”

“Yeah?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for you?”

“A talented fighter at my side. Right now, you’re still a little fish in a big ocean. There are monsters in the deep you don’t know about.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Only if you’re not smart enough to recognize it.” The man’s half-lidded eyes made him look sleepy, but Harry could tell he was smart. Conniving. He’d booked people like him before. “No one knows you yet: Any recognition you have I can triple it. I can make you a rich man.”

“So you can rip me off from my own profit.”

“Not at all. We’re partners in this.”

“We’re nothing right now,” Draco said stonily.

“Then you have to make a decision, boy,” the man said. His tone was neutral, but the way his jaw hardened was not. “Because if you aren’t my friend, you’re my enemy. And you don’t want to be my enemy.”

Draco’s face must have seemed blank to them, but Harry knew his tells from years of egging him on. The flare of his nostrils, the thin line of his lips. “I’ll take my chances.”

Harry heard the click of a gun from the man speaking, the leader. He was sure the others had weapons too. “I implore you to reconsider.”

Draco felt Harry’s magic suddenly break over him like a wave. His fingers twitched and his jaw clenched trying not to react to it. This charm was benign, familiar, he knew how it felt. A wordless _Protego_ , especially impressive because Harry had to keep himself well hidden under the too-short invisibility cloak while casting. _Of course he has to show off_ , he thought, offended that Harry didn’t think him capable without the shield. But he couldn’t focus on that right now, nor could he wonder what the significance of that strange clicking sound was. The muggle version of a wand, or something less sophisticated, perhaps.

“Duly noted,” Draco drawled.

The other man frowned, his dark eyebrows curving down. He looked down his nose at Draco, looking like a bird of prey. Draco stared haughtily back.

“Next time you’re in the ring,” the man rasped, “I expect fifty percent of your winnings to go to one of my men here. It’ll mean good things for you.”

“And if I don’t give it?”

He stared him down. “You seem like a smart guy, David. I’m sure you can work it out. Carl will escort you out now.”

The cigarette man—Carl, Draco supposed—grabbed one of Draco’s arms and _pulled_. He clenched his teeth to stop from making a sound, but went with him.

Out the warehouse, down a few side streets.

Stop.

Carl turned and gave Draco a swift, hard punch to the gut. He wheezed, all the air forced out of him, and sank to the ground.

“Dr—“ Harry started, stepping towards him. He stopped when a silent _Stupefy_ was sent his way, surreptitiously thrown over Draco’s shoulder while he clutched at him stomach with his free hand.

“If you’re smart, you do what the boss says,” Carl warned, before backpedaling and twisted forwards out of the alley.

Draco took a deep breath and rested his head against the side of the building behind him, closing his eyes and shooting a wordless _Ennervate_ once Carl was out of sight. Harry appeared to his left and knelt next to him.

“I always wondered how you never got caught skulking around the hallways after hours,” Draco rasped, looking at him through his lashes.

“I didn’t _skulk_ ,” Harry protested, miffed about the stunner. He’d been hit by far too many, recently. “How’s your stomach?”

Draco’s eye twitched. “Fine.”

“I’ll help you with the others, once we get back to your flat.”

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Draco sighed.

“I want to. Come on. It’s cold.” Fuck the cold, Harry didn’t think it was _safe_ , but he knew telling Draco that would only make him belligerent.

Draco grunted his assent, pushing himself up reluctantly.

_*_

“Are you going to do it?”

Draco closed his eyes, his face in his arms on the kitchen table. Harry was cooking again. Draco suspected it calmed him when he was anxious, though whether it was the cooking part or having food ready, he still hadn’t figured out.

Harry wouldn’t let him do it. He couldn’t. He would have to risk whatever trust he’d built up and either talk Draco out of it or force him to stay away from the ring somehow. It was too dangerous, and those guys were thugs. Harry didn’t know them, but he knew people like them. He didn’t want Draco mixed up with them. And Draco—Draco hadn’t shown the best judgment. An angry Draco who never wanted to see him again was better than a dead one, even if thinking about alienating him so made Harry’s chest feel tight.

“No,” Draco mumbled, to Harry’s immense relief. “I don’t work well with authority anymore.”

Harry snorted. “I think you could fine. If the _authority_ wasn’t a total bleeding scumbag.”

“Maybe.”

He sat listening to the sounds of Harry cooking for a while longer. He would never admit it, but it calmed him too, having him there with him.

“Does your stomach hurt?”

“No.” Draco sat up and pulled his winnings, the wad of cash, out of his pocket.”My own personal bodyguard. I should pay you.”

“No,” Harry said sharply, brandishing a spoon at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Draco squinted, but threw it on the table nonetheless. “You’ve done too much. This isn’t about the debt anymore, I…I have to. I can’t owe you any favors.”

“It was never really about the debt, Draco. You’re Teddy’s family. Family helps each other out.”

Draco blinked. “You’re not my family.”

“No, but Teddy is, and he’s mine.”

“But…” Draco scowled, conflicted.

Harry set the spoon down and sat close next to him. “Draco,” he said, leaning in, trying to coax him to look away from the table and at him. “I might not know much about blood, but I know that family is who you choose it to be. Teddy and Andromeda are as much my family as Sirius was, as my parents were. Hell, they’re more my family than my own living relatives—I haven’t spoken to my aunt or uncle in years. Teddy, Andromeda and I, we watch out for each other—and if you’re with them, I’m with you. _That’s_ what matters, Draco. It’s not a favor. It’s a definite.”

Draco still had reserves when he looked at Harry, ones that were visible in his eyes. But still, he said, “Alright.”

Harry nodded, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Anything you need, Draco, Whenever.”

“Because we’re family?” he asked with the hint of a mocking smile.

“Because I care about you,” Harry responded slowly. “And if you ever care about me the same way, I’ll be here for you.”

Draco ran his hand though his hair, turning away and obscuring his face.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you again,” he said abruptly. “I don’t mean to lead you on, or…I just wasn’t thinking.”

“I liked it,” Harry said. “I like _you_. And I think you like me too. If you don’t want to be with me, that’s fine, but until you know for sure you take as much time as you need to decide. I’m going to stay right here.”

Draco chewed his lip, his chest tight. “You shouldn’t wait for something like that.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe not. But I will anyway.”

He just shook his head more, a lock of hair falling from behind his ear. “I’ll ruin it,” he protested. “I always do, with this sort of thing.”

Harry gave him a little smile. Draco hadn’t shaken his hand off still, so he took that as a sign it was ok. He tucked the stray lock of Draco’s back behind his ear, the strands fine and silky on his fingers. “I have an idea of what I’m getting into. We’ve fought for ages. I think we can last through a bit more, if we have to.”

“You don’t know that. I’m terrible at being close to people.”

“That makes two of us, but I’m willing to try.”

Draco leaned back in his chair and covered his face again with his hands. Harry’s fell away in the process.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he groaned, his voice muffled.

“I didn’t either.”

Draco sighed and removed his hands, staring at the ceiling. His eyes looked rather glassy, Harry noted. “I need more time.”

“You can have it,” Harry said. “If your injuries are better, I’ll go, if that’s easier.”

“They’re fine,” Draco said. “Take some food with you. You can use the floo.”

Harry nodded, hesitating. “I know you’re still deciding,” he started, “and of course you don’t have to agree, but—can I kiss you?”

Draco looked up in surprise, licking his lips. The thought _he really wants to?_ swam through his mind, even after all of Harry’s reassurances. If his quiet “alright” was a little breathless, Harry didn’t say anything.

When Draco kissed, it was hard, competitive. It was spur-of-the-moment, too quick to think about or second-guess. That’s not how Harry kissed.

Harry cupped Draco’s face in his hands, brushing his fringe back away from his forehead. His thumbs stroked his cheekbones softly. One hand he ran up and down the side of Draco’s neck. _He’s lovely_ , he thought, looking at those grey eyes flecked with silver and blue, full of all sorts of difficult and tangled emotions, but willing nonetheless.

When their lips touched, it was gentle and slow, soft skin on soft skin. Draco gasped, just slightly, and Harry deepened the kiss. His mouth was warm, his tongue hot. Draco thought Harry tasted like the spices he’d been using in the food. Harry couldn’t tell what Draco tasted like, but he liked it.

They pulled away and Harry gave him a bashful smile, looking at him from partway beneath his fringe, the shy expression something wondrous that Draco had never before seen cross his features.

Harry stroked his cheek one last time. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, taking one hand in both of his. And then, good to his word, he left, his fingers trailing like it was hard to let go. “Call me whenever.”

Draco held his breath until he heard the _whoosh_ of the floo.

He stared out the darkened window and fiddled with the hem of his shirt for a long while, trying to decide what he felt.

 _That was nice_ , he admitted, biting his lip.

 _That was really nice_.


	14. Chapter 14

14.

 

The strange metal contraption Harry had given him was buzzing again. He eyed it warily from where it sat on the kitchen counter, reluctant to touch it. He decided to leave it where it was for then, and settled back into his armchair and pulled his bookmark from between the pages.

He supposed Muggles didn’t quite read this book like he was doing. He wasn’t sure if he was being disrespectful, writing as he was in the margins and underlining certain passages. He wondered if they thought this, being a holy object, should be revered instead of vandalized. If so, Draco couldn’t agree—a book was just a book. However powerful it was made, with magic or curses or something more heinous, it was still, at its roots, made to be read.

He was midway through. It was very slow going. He’d been trying to get through this for years, since his second year at University. But he kept at it.

Belief fascinated him because it was elusive for him, something to be sought but never attained. Religion scared the hell out of him. It reminded him too much of Voldemort, of his cult following.

Not knowing any better, when he’d first moved into his flat in Boston he’d stumbled upon a few fanatics who had told him all about God in vivid detail, and what would happen if he didn’t believe in Him, capital “H”. After that, he’d started doing research. Research was what he did when he was frightened. And even though he knew that people in the wizarding world must have had their own religious beliefs, they were often kept under wraps—it wasn’t socially acceptable, at least not in pureblood social rings, to talk about that sort of thing.

Lucius had always told him that the only higher power that Malfoys had to worry about was commerce and the Dark Lord. Religion was seen as uninformed, since there was a common belief that pureblood wizards were what inspired quite a lot of muggle religion in the first place.

From some of what he read, he supposed could understand that logic, if he tried hard. But he thought that these wizards, the ones who dismissed religion, were missing the point. I wasn’t so much about the miracles—or the magic, whichever one it was Draco wasn’t about to decide. He thought about it for quite a while, and he’d come to the conclusion that magic was a sort of miracle—as was everything.

He thought maybe if his father had studied more about devotion, he wouldn’t have devoted himself to the wrong cause.

He didn’t want to do that. One could say he had a crisis when he realized it.

What it was really about was being good. And not what other people thought was good, but doing what was actually good, for nothing other than it was the right thing to do. That’s what he thought it was, anyway. But when he talked to anyone about it—admittedly few people—they seemed more worried about the end goal, the afterlife. That’s the first thing they mentioned. But Draco had done a lot of thinking.

What good was anything anyone did if it was just to reach an end goal? Were they truly good people if they only did good things because they were frightened?

_Scaring people doesn’t make them good people, it only makes them afraid._

Draco hoped that realization was a swinging door. He hoped that when someone did a bad thing because they were frightened, that didn’t mean they were inherently bad.

He hoped for it so much, because if he was wrong, then there must have been something wrong with him. Because if that was how he would be judged, there wouldn’t be any paradise for him, not ever.

He thought it was a good thing, then, that belief was so impossible for him—better to not know.

He was trying to make up for it, he really was. But changing his intentions was more difficult than just changing his actions, he was finding. It was slow going.

He had thought that by reading muggle books, he would get more acclimated to them without actually having to interact with them much. At first it was just medical books, because science really had to be collaborative, and knowledge was better when pooled. They knew quite an astonishing amount about healing when one thought about how they lacked magic.

And then, slowly, he started reading novels. And after his encounter with the pushy, slightly fanatical person he met, it became this holy book as well. He was fairly sure that this was not the same religion as he had been told about, but because he was reading this for research purposes and not because he was trying to find out what he actually believed, he figured it was alright.

He thought it would be nice though, to have that fallback. That even if it seemed like no one was there, that no one cared or loved him, there would be this great, powerful presence that cared for him and loved him no matter what. That could offer protection.

When it came down to it, Draco thought everyone just wanted to be protected from something.

He just couldn’t let anyone else protect him from life, not anymore, not yet. He wanted to. He wanted so badly to not have to be strong, to just let everything _out_ the way he’d almost done at dinner that night, the way he _almost_ could in the ring. But his mother—even as she tried to protect him, he had to protect her.

And Harry—he wanted to let him, really wanted to. More than anything. And he knew Harry would let him, too. But what would that make him? The kind of weakling who latched onto the most powerful person in the vicinity?

Harry deserved better than that. He didn’t need that. Harry didn’t need his need, his insecurity, his fear. Draco didn’t know if he was even capable of giving all that to him even though he wanted to, because giving it all to him meant Draco expected him to stay. And if he didn’t—if he didn’t stay, what would Draco do after giving such an important part of himself away?

Draco stared at the pages again. _The only way out is to try to get through it myself_.

_I have to do the right thing, and it has to be alone._

The right thing, for Draco, began with trusting this strange metal object. He didn’t understand how it worked. It wasn’t magic, it was science—technology so advanced it might as well have been magic to Draco. Hell, it might as well have been a miracle.

It scared him, because the people who used it scared him. And the reason scared him was because he didn’t know any of them, because he’d been taught they were strange and backwards and if they met him they’d try to kill him.

The portraits in the Black house, where he’d visited when he was little, had told him stories about his ancestors getting kidnapped and maimed by muggles, schoolchildren who hadn’t yet become proficient in charms or apparition being taken and burned at the stake. The stories might have happened, or they might just have been the same sort of hogwash as the Big, Bad Wolf—but he had been five years old, and the portraits were ancient. How was he supposed to know they were biased?

If he was going to be doing all this thinking about belief, he needed to check himself. He had to stop letting dusty portraits who lived in his family’s basement, staring at the same stretch of wallpaper for the better part of the Millennium, influence what he thought. He needed to stop letting his father influence what he thought.   

And so he turned back to that horrid buzzing contraption and walked to it. He knew it was irrational, but his heart sped up when he reached his hand out. He held his breath when he opened it, keeping it at arm’s length away from him.

It said he had three missed messages, two from a while ago. But the most recent one showed up on screen.

_Dinner with Teddy?_

_-H_

Draco let out the breath he’d been holding. He managed to laugh a little, even if it sounded strangled.

 _That wasn’t too bad_. Nothing had happened.

It was just Harry, after all.

Just Harry.

Maybe he could actually survive this.

 

_*_

 

The minute Draco opened Andromeda’s front door he was nearly knocked off his feet. A small person with white-blonde hair had bodily thrown himself into Draco’s abdomen.

“Draco!”

“Hey, kiddo,” he smiled, patting him on the head.

“We’re going to a restaurant tonight!”

“I know, it’s very exciting.”

“Teddy, why don’t you let him in the door,” called Harry’s voice from somewhere inside the house.

Teddy led Draco in by the hand, bringing him to the couch. In a very uthoritative manner, he instructed Draco to sit, which he did with amusement. Teddy climbed into his lap and wrapped his arms around him happily.

Harry appeared from the stairwell. “I called in, we have reservations for seven.”

Draco looked at his watch—forty five minutes to the hour. “Alright.”

“It’s muggle,” Harry admitted, sitting next to them on the couch, leaning against the armrest to face them.

“I figured.”

“You don’t have a problem with that?”

“I’d have a bigger problem if it was wizarding,” Draco said, not meeting Harry’s eyes and smoothing down Teddy’s unruly hair. “I’d rather not get mobbed by reporters and defamed in front of my little cousin.”

“I’m gonna be big one day,” Teddy interjected, turning in his seat.

“Yes, you will. But for now, I can still do this!” Draco scooped him up and swung him around the room, the little boy laughing and squealing all the way. They plopped back down, Draco’s hair a mess, both their faces flushed.  Harry watched happily, a smile on his face that Draco didn’t like to look at or think about.

“Again!” Teddy exclaimed, jumping on him and ignoring Draco’s _oof_ of protest. “Again!”

“Give me a minute to rest,” Draco said. “I’m weak in my old age.”

Harry stifled a laugh. “Andromeda’s out tonight, in case you were wondering where she is. She’s with Molly—I’m babysitting him tonight.”

“Alright,” Draco nodded. He had wondered.

“We should start getting ready,” he said, pushing himself off the couch. ‘Teddy always takes a long time.”

“I do not!” he protested, but let Harry take his hands and pull him off Draco’s lap, where he had migrated once more.

“Whatever you say, buddy,” Harry relented. “Why don’t you find your coat, I’ll help you with the buttons.”

Teddy ran off, leaving Harry and Draco alone.

“You’re really good with him,” Harry said.

Draco brought his knees in close to his chest, kicking off his shoes. “He’s an easy kid to get along with.”

“He is,” Harry agreed, noticing the shift in Draco’s personality. He was so warm when he was with Teddy, full of such obvious affection and happiness. But it turned right off when Teddy left, and was replaced by distance Harry thought might have been accidental, trying to conceal—what? Awkwardness? Discomfort? Attraction? Some combination of the three?

“The restaurant’s not exactly top-notch—it had to be kid-friendly.”

“I understand. You don’t have to justify your choice to me, Potter.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Harry sighed.

“Your name?”

“My surname is Potter,” he said. “My _name_ is Harry. Call me that. Please, Draco.”

A lot of emotions flickered across Draco’s face, too quick to count or recognize. He got his blank mask fixed on, though, after a second or two, and after that there was a long pause. Harry assumed he’d gotten bored and just refused to answer, and so he’d turned to get his coat.

“Alright,” Draco said, finally. He didn’t let him know that’s how he’d already thought of him, even if he never said it.

Without turning around, Harry nodded, smiling. He wouldn’t say it then, of course not. Draco was too stubborn to grant him that. But if he said so, he knew he would. “Alright.”

 

_*_

 

Teddy was very well-mannered for a little boy, no doubt because of Andromeda’s impeccable teaching. They’d made sure to emphasize that his hair absolutely _could not_ change color while they were out, and so Teddy decided to stick with his recently adopted messy white-blonde mop for the night. Harry told him it was very important to keep his manners about him, because they were going to a new restaurant today that Teddy had never been to, which Teddy was very excited about.

He insisted on holding both Draco’s and Harry’s hands while they walked from the apparition spot to the restaurant, and Draco was glad for it—he still didn’t trust all these muggle automobile contraptions, even after all these semesters living in Boston. Especially not near a child. He had never ridden in one, but he guessed it was horrendous there, cramped and rattling around like the confines of a tin can.

Harry watched in amusement as Draco flinched every time a car passed a bit too close for his liking. It was obvious he was afraid of them, even if he was too proud to admit it, and so when Harry noticed Draco’s hand tightening around Teddy’s, taking a step to put himself a little more between the little boy and the road while scowling darkly at the cars as though the strength of his glare could put them off course, Harry felt his heart clench.

When they got to the restaurant, Harry let go of Teddy, walking over to the hostess to put in their names. In response, Teddy just reached up and grabbed Draco’s hand in both of his, staring around at the restaurant with wide eyes.

 _He’s a clingy little thing_ , Draco thought. But of course he would be—he must have had so many different people taking care of him, getting passed between Andromeda and Harry and the Weasleys (whose hair Teddy was fascinated by) and now recently Draco. Of course he’d hold onto them tightly.

The hostess showed them to their seats, giving them menus. She wiggled her fingers and smiled at Teddy. The boy grinned shyly back, still holding Draco’s hand between his small ones.

“Your son is adorable,” she said, turning her head to beam at Draco.

His eyebrows flew up. “Oh, ah—he’s my cousin, actually. But thank you.”

She nodded amiably and left to help the other customers. Draco’s face flamed to Harry's snickering amusement. Teddy, not paying attention, immediately became immersed in trying to read the menus. He demanded Draco read out every word he didn’t know, and when he was refused he insisted Harry do it instead, which the man - a better man than Draco, on all accounts - patiently obliged.

Draco found it a testament to Harry’s character that, when the waitress accidentally spilled a glass of water in his lap, he laughed it off and excused himself to the bathroom to perform a discreet drying charm on himself while waving away the waitress's profuse apologies. If that had happened to Lucius, he knew the waitress would be out of a job.

Harry let Draco choose the wine they ordered, saying “You probably know much more than me. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

_Good thinking,_ Draco thought. 

The food was good, the waitress kind, and when they were finished eating, Teddy, whose tummy became distended from too much food and very ready for a nap, snuggled onto Draco’s lap. He only minded a little that the boy was covered in pasta sauce, and probably getting a good amount of it on his trousers.

Draco thought about his parents, how they had such strict rules and ideas about decorum both when in public and in private while he was growing up. He couldn’t remember hugging his father when he was little despite being spoiled by presents of good food and lavish clothes. It wasn’t that his parents didn’t love him, he knew they did—it was just his father had very strict ideas about how a father and son should interact, and he believed tough love was the best way to raise a child.

Draco disagreed, wrapping his arms around Teddy’s middle and pressing a kiss on the top of his sleepy head. He knew that when he had been Teddy’s age he was an insufferable child. His behavior had only gotten worse, too, until he’d had some sense shaken into him, and not nearly in a gentle way. Tough love and presents didn’t equate to good parenting—you couldn’t buy a child’s good behavior, you had to teach it to them. And, considering he’d found so many of his father’s views to be lacking or misinformed, he figured it couldn’t hurt to show Teddy physical affection, either—not that the little boy would accept anything less. He wouldn’t be surprised if Teddy insisted he carry him home.

Harry insisted on paying the full amount, which Draco didn’t mind: Harry had asked him to come, so he could pay, even if a little part of him wanted to argue just for the sake of it.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Harry asked. It was a nice day outside, only a little chilly, and the sun hadn’t even begun to set yet.

“Where?”

“There’s a muggle park just a few blocks that way,” Harry said, gesturing to their left.

“Sure,” Draco said. “Teddy, how does that sound?”

“I’m tired, Draco,” he said, covering his mouth for a gigantic yawn.

“Tell you what, buddy,” Harry said, crouching down. “We’ll go for a little while, and then if you get too sleepy, we’ll go right back home.”

“Okay,” Teddy nodded, but made a show of rubbing his eye with the hand that wasn’t latched onto Draco’s. Once finished, he immediately grabbed Harry’s, and thus they walked—though, as soon as they entered the park and in accordance with Draco's prediction, Teddy asked him to carry him, which of course he couldn’t refuse.

The park was filled with meticulously trimmed grass and beautiful flowers that were only just starting to wilt in the chill. It reminded Draco of his mother’s garden, orchids and daisies and all sorts of plants he couldn’t name. The difference being that most of the plants she grew had potions properties, whereas these were just for enjoyment.

Draco decided it was nice having Harry there. He tried to enjoy it. He still didn’t like that Harry knew so much about him—he wasn’t used to it, letting people in, letting them see him. But if what Harry said was true, then that information was at least safe with him. It didn’t seem like he was going anywhere, yet, though Draco knew resolutely somewhere in the back of his mind that he would. Later maybe than sooner, but it would happen—he felt it in a way that didn’t need to be verbalized or even thought distinctly, because it just _was_.

But now was nice. Very nice. His arms ached from carrying Teddy, who had decided halfway into the walk that he could no longer go on and threatened to have a temper tantrum unless he was carried—but it was a good ache. Harry was next to him, warm and steady. They didn’t say much, but Draco preferred it that way, lost in thought as he was.

“Do you want to sit?” Harry asked, spotting a bench coming up. He’d noticed Draco’s arms were shaking, but knew enough not to comment on it. He said instead, “My feet are tired.”

Draco suspected what Harry was doing, and his appreciation for it stopped him from calling him out. “Sure.” 

They settled down, Draco breathing out a small sigh of relief. Teddy wiggled off his lap and sat next to him, pulling his arm around him. His face was flushed, his little nose runny. Draco took his scarf off and wrapped it around the little boy’s neck, fretting that he might be getting sick in the chilled air.

The sun was fading behind the trees, glowing yellow on the small pond in front of them. “I can apparate us back to Andy’s once the park closes,” Harry said. “He’s tired, so he’ll want to go to bed soon. I’ll wait there until she gets back—she and Molly usually stay up talking for a long while.”

“Alright,” Draco nodded. He shivered slightly in the cold, and his hand went again to his left forearm, a habit Harry had noticed he did whenever he was feeling awkward or anxious.

Biting on the inside of his cheek and hoping he wasn’t making the wrong decision, Harry reached over and wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulders, feeling him tense. It was only when he held him that Harry was reminded of how fine-boned and slim he really was: Draco’s attitude always made him seem much larger. “Is this okay?”

Draco took a second to respond, his face expressionless. But Harry felt the tension leave his muscles and he leant into Harry, his arm falling more comfortably around his shoulders as he settled. “Yeah.”

Harry rubbed Draco’s arm lightly, glad he’d stopped pressing his Mark. Next to them, Teddy rested his head on Draco’s thigh, starting to breathe deeply. Draco played with the little boy’s hair, still that same white-blonde as his own.

“He’s tired,” he said quietly some time later as the last of the sun slipped away, trying not to disturb him. “He should go to bed.”

Harry nodded, sliding his arm out from around Draco’s back, moving over and gently shaking Teddy awake. “We’re leaving, buddy. I’m gonna side-along you and Draco, okay?”

Teddy rubbed his eyes and nodded blearily, the end of the scarf Draco had wrapped around his neck clutched in one small hand.

Once they apparated back to Andy’s, Teddy was so tired he needed to be carried up to his bedroom after a sleepy “Goodnight”. Harry got him into his pjs and tucked him in, returning to the living room to happily discover that Draco was still there—that he actually stayed.

“Thank you for dinner,” Draco said as Harry walked up to him.

He shook his head. “No need to thank me. I’m happy you came.”

“Yeah,” Draco nodded. “Well—um. I guess…”

Harry cocked his head, waiting. Draco was so quick-witted usually, he always had something at the ready to say. It was nice, every once in a while, to see him fumble for words.

Draco took a deep breath and stepped closer to Harry, looking up to him and reaching a hand to his cheek. He didn’t wait to ask—he knew it was alright. Harry had made sure he knew.

He tried to calm down, slow down, make this kiss like the one they'd shared before. Soft and gentle, the slow, languid slide of their lips together. They parted, their cheeks brushing, all Harry’s focus was on him, his eyes so intense even behind his glasses. Draco took them off of him, folding them neatly and putting them on the table to the side. They deepened the kiss, though who started, Draco lost track. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the solid feel of Harry’s body against him when his arms slid around his waist, chest to chest. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, bringing him in close, holding him against him and keeping him there.

This time, Draco didn’t want to leave.

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

15.

 

“Man, it feels good to be away from the kid for a little while,” Ron said happily, taking a large swig of his beer. He and Harry were holed up in a corner of the Leaky, because Tom, thankfully, never let any of the press follow them. “And it’s good to see you, mate. Can’t wait to be back on the force in a few weeks.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. He really hadn’t seen enough of Ron—he and Hermione had agreed that he’d do most of the stay-at-home aspect of parenting while Hugo was still little, considering she was a rising star at the Ministry and his Auror job would always be held for him. He was one of their department’s top Aurors, and he was a mean strategist, not just in chess—Harry thought he had a real shot at being Head Auror one day, even if everyone thought the Chosen One would be the man for the job instead.

“Spit it out, then,” Ron said finally, after a few quiet draughts from both of them. “I can see it in your face. You’ve got something to tell me.”

“Really?”

Ron snorted. “We’ve been best mates for over a decade. Of course. So, out with it, then.”

Harry leaned back, taking another long draught. “So, I found this guy.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought you’d given up searching.”

“Well, yeah, mostly.” Ron had been there after Ginny, during Harry’s period of exploration that most often ended in disaster. Mainly because he was trying to be discreet— the media still didn’t know Harry was bent, which was exactly how he preferred it. And with muggles it just wouldn’t have been feasible—there was too much explaining around things, too much lying. He just didn’t feel comfortable with that level of deceit.

“Is he fit?”

Harry snorted into his drink. _If only he knew._ “I think so, yeah. Bit of a prick though.”

Ron shrugged. “You were obsessed with Malfoy in sixth year. Can’t get much worse than that.”

He tried not to laugh. He was so nervous, the sound he would emit would most certainly be at least an octave higher than usual. “Malfoy in sixth year was a prat,” he agreed.

“So what’s this new bloke do? Do I know him?”

“He’s training to be a healer in the states, but comes back every once in a while to be with his family. You do, actually. Or you did. He’s changed a lot, since school.”

Ron’s eyebrows nearly met his hairline and he put down his half-empty glass. “ _Oh_ , he’s from school. Can I guess?”

“You can, but I doubt you’re going to get it,” Harry said, shaking his head out of amusement—and, if he was honest, mounting anxiety.

“Is it Zacharias Smith? He was a huge prick in school.”

Harry made a face. “God, no. He was annoying as hell.”

“Anthony Goldstein?”

“You think Anthony Goldstein is fit?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in ages! Maybe you go for the nerdy type.”

Harry laughed. “Not really. And he’s not a healer—Goldstein works in the Misuse of Magical Objects department, I bumped into him a few weeks ago and we chatted for a bit.”

“Damn. Give me a hint. Which house were they in?”

Harry scoffed. “You’re gonna hate the answer.”

A huge, incredulous grin spread across his face. “No _way_. Were they in Slytherin?”

Harry brought his glass back up to his lips, muttering “They might have been.”

“Harry!” Ron exclaimed—but although he did look surprised, he didn’t look outraged. “I never would have pegged it. Is it Zabini? You know his mom killed like seven of her husbands, right?”

Harry could forget about his anxiety, for that. “Wait, really?”

 “Yeah, made a fortune off of it too. People figured out what she was doing by like the third husband, but apparently she was so beautiful that four more guys decided she was worth risking pretty much certain death for. Never thought Zabini was all that pretty, though. I wonder which of the husbands was his father, actually.”

Harry made a note of that to ask Draco. “I’d like to think none of them, if his own mom killed them.”

“Fair enough. You still haven’t answered, though—are you risking death to date Zabini? I doubt he’d kill you, though, the backlash would be too much for him.” Ron’s tone was still joking—Harry figured the full weight of what they were talking about still hadn’t sunk in.

“It’s not Zabini. And we’re not really dating yet. I just said I found him.”

“But found, in this context, implies more than just meeting him on the street for a chat.”

“Yeah, it does.”

Something seemed to occur to Ron and he burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink. “You’re totally shagging Goyle.”

“ _Ew_ Ron, what the hell?” Harry shuddered. “That’s about the worst thing I can think of.”

Ron shrugged, pulling a face. “I think Malfoy would be about the worst.”

Harry opened and shut his mouth, pursing his lips and clearing his throat, trying to ignore the heat he felt rising up his neck.

Ron stared at Harry’s expression, the grin slowly sliding off his face. “No, wait. Not Malfoy. You’re totally having me on, aren’t you?”

“I told you, he’s changed.” Harry pulled a hand through his hair. Here was the conversation he’d wanted to avoid.

“Harry, I really don’t care that it’s a Slytherin, but Malfoy? Why does it have to be that one in particular?” His expression looked pained. He whipped out his wand and cast a scanning charm on Harry that made his skin light up blue.

“Stop that!” Harry protested, irritated. “I’m not cursed.”

“I figured you had to be,” Ron said, looking stunned. “That had to be the only explanation.”

“He’s different, Ron. And it’s not like I met him and just decided immediately I wanted to date him. I still hated him at first, too.”

“Are you sure he hasn’t slipped you a love potion?”

“I’m sure.”

“So what the hell happened?” he asked, looking bewildered with a line between his eyebrows.

“He’s Teddy’s cousin,” Harry explained as patiently as he could. “As much as I didn’t like him, I thought it was important that we didn’t keep secrets to Teddy about his family, and that meant meeting everyone in it.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea, Harry.”

“I mean, I didn’t let the two of them go at it right away—that would have, yeah. I figured that if he and I could get along for a while then I would let him see Teddy.”

“And Malfoy was fine with that?”

“Well, I didn’t tell him at first that it was about Teddy.”

“So, you what? Just stalked him around the Manor until you became buddy buddy?

“No!” Harry protested. “He doesn’t even really live at the Manor anymore—like I said, he’s in the states. Narcissa had a problem with Lucius, though, and she called me because she saved my life in the Forest—she knew she could get me to help her. And she wanted to meet Andromeda again, see Teddy. She’s really what drove it, at the start.”

Ron looked thoughtful—upset, still, but at least he was mulling it over and actually listening. Harry had been afraid of yelling. It was a testament to how much Ron had matured that there wasn’t any.

“Is he good with Teddy?” he asked finally.

“Fantastic,” Harry answered immediately. “Teddy loves him. Every time they’re together they’re inseparable. Draco even lets him on his shoulders.”

Ron shook his head in astonishment. “ _Malfoy_ can’t be good with kids. He’d have an aneurism if anyone wrinkled his starched trousers.”

A flash of annoyance passed him by, but even so Harry laughed at the truth in Ron's words and shook his head. If it had been Malfoy from school, Harry had no doubt that's exactly what he would have done. But he'd seen him hugging Teddy, even when the little was boy covered in food or mud or grass stains. He's seen him roughed up in a fight. Ron hadn't had the privilege of that closeness, and so he couldn't possibly know what Draco was like now. 

Images of Draco with Teddy flashed through his mind, the day he saw Draco carrying Teddy on his shoulders, the walk where he let Teddy snuggle into his lap, that very first day when they’d played with the little flying paper cranes as Harry watched in the hall. “He’s really not like that anymore. It’s actually sort of…impressive how much he's changed.”

“You think Malfoy is impressive?”

“He’s trying, Ron. It’s not easy to throw off an entire life full of brainwashing. I think he’s trying to atone for it, by being a healer.”

“He has a lot to atone for,” Ron scowled.

“Yes,” Harry agreed reluctantly, “he does." _But so do we all._  "And he’s paid for it—not in full, I don’t think he'll ever f—”

“Damn right,” Ron muttered, interrupting.

“—eel like he has, but he feels guilty about everything, I know he does. _I_ certainly do. And from what Narcissa has said, Lucius pretty much dragged all of them down with him. He didn’t even let her see Andy, not until he got sick.”

“He’s sick?”

Harry nodded. “Completely out of his mind. Kept having hallucinations or something, was a danger to her and the house elves—they’re seeing a doctor who thinks it’s too much exposure to Dark Magic.”

Ron sucked his teeth. “Serves him right.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, well. He can’t talk anymore, or he doesn’t, at least. They’ve got him on all sorts of medicines, so he’s basically in a sort of vegetative state, I think. It’s why Narcissa could talk to Andy.”

“And that’s going well?”

“It’s hard—they haven’t been on good terms for the better part of three decades—but they’re getting there.”

“Hmph,” Ron grunted, picking up his beer and downing the last of it in long draughts. “I’m going to get another one.”

Harry waited apprehensively while Ron left. His shoulders were stiff and his head was down, deep in thought. But by the time he came back, he seemed to have resolved something.

Ron made like he was going to say something, then closed his mouth and took three big gulps of his drink, wiping foam off his upper lip.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t want to know whatever you’ve got going on with bloody _Malfoy_ , of all people,” he said, and continued hurriedly when Harry made to interject. “But if you say he’s changed, I’ll take it. I still hate him. He’s a bloody bastard and he’s part of the reason Fred is gone and I’ll never forgive him for that. And honestly, Harry, I’m right pissed at you too, because you _knew_ him, you went to his _funeral_ and I—” Ron cut off, taking a deep breath.

“It’s different,” Harry protested, his voice low but steady. “He’s different. I really care about him, Ron.”

“I _know_ that,” Ron said empathetically, his teeth gritted, which Harry was upset to notice. “You wouldn’t be interested in him otherwise. We used to hate him together!" He got that irritated, thoughtful look on his face again. "I’ve trusted your judgment all my life, Harry.”

“I can trust that you think you’re making the right decision,” Ron continued, after a charged pause. “And I trust that your intentions are good, and that you really believe he’s changed. But I don’t believe it. I don’t like it and I don’t like him, and just because he’s done something to make you trust him doesn’t mean that I do. The minute he hurts you—because he will, Harry, he lies and cheats and he’s a slimy little ferret, and he’s blinded you somehow— I’m going to find him and I’m going to beat the living daylights out of him like muggles do. And then I’m going to get Ginny to hex him.”

Harry thought about what he’d said. And even though he disagreed about what Ron said about Draco, he said, “I can deal with that.”

Ron nodded. “I’m gonna need some time to get used to it,” he relented. “But it’s your life. I can’t stop you from making terrible decisions if you really are set on it. Hell, maybe you’re even right about Malfoy., but I’d need to see it to believe it.”

Harry nodded, a small smile tugging the corners of his lips. “Well, thanks mate.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “Anytime,” he said, taking another large swig. “Though you’re going to have to buy me endless rounds to make up for this conversation. I’m going to need to get _very_ drunk.”

Harry grinned. “Me too,” he replied, a huge wave of relief finally hitting him. He’d managed to tell him, and their friendship had stayed intact. This conversation was more than he’d dared to hope for, but then, Ron kept showing him he deserved more credit than that—he was his best mate, after all.  “I’ll get us another.”

 

 _*_

 

It was one-thirty in the morning, and Draco was exhausted.

 _This isn’t even supposed to be my shift_ , he thought despondently, casting a _Tempus_. The hospital had called him in earlier that afternoon because of a mix-up with his schedule. He’d gotten the alert from his wards that his floo in the states was trying to be reached while eating with Teddy. Andromeda had been having a difficult time leaving her work (she did something to do with assimilating muggle-borns into Wizarding society after receiving their letter: She’d had a very long talk with Narcissa about it) to pick up Teddy from day care, so Draco agreed to do it. After all, 1’o clock in London was 7am in Boston, and his classes didn’t start until ten—which seemed nice, but when clinical was factored into it, he sometimes didn’t get out of work until three in the morning—such as now.

Draco had agreed, because it _was_ a hospital after all, and they couldn’t stop helping people just because they were short staffed.  And after that brief conversation, Teddy had been absolutely over the moon to see where Draco lived, even if he did complain that there were too many books and not enough dinosaurs.

So it had been lunch for Teddy, breakfast for Draco, until the sudden call turned the meal into an impromptu tour of his apartment for the little boy while he packed his bag for work—they wanted him to come in right after classes, so he wouldn’t have any time to go home in between.

Once Draco had sent Teddy home and gotten through his classes and to the hospital, though, his supervisor asked if he could stay for four _more_ hours on top of the eight hour shift he’d agreed to. Which, of course, he had to say yes to.  

With his grades now sliding as they were, he knew there was only so much his professors had to say in his defense. He needed to build up credit as a good healer somewhere, or he’d never get into the prestigious potions program he wanted. The way it was looking, he might already have to work full-time for a while as a basic healer to get his resume back into shape—which wasn’t ideal, but something he could resign himself to—and this hospital was as good a place as any.

But he’d had to owl Andromeda and tell her he probably would be too tired to pick up Teddy the next day, and he became even _more_ disgruntled for it. He loved spending time with his cousin and felt horrible for letting him down.    

Mostly, this night, the work was just observations on the psyche unit. He had to stare at one patient while he slept for four hours. Then, he’d had to stare at another patient while s _he_ slept for four hours. It was a precaution to make sure they didn’t try to get up and hurt themselves, for good reason, Draco knew—but still, knowing that didn’t make him feel any less like a creep. And it was boring as hell, too, trying to stay awake while literally watching someone else do exactly what he wished he was doing.

He thanked Merlin when he got called away for a bit. He didn’t know what Amy the receptionist wanted; he only ever spoke to her in passing, when he was first coming in or leaving, but she seemed nice enough. It had taken him a while, though, to find someone else to take his job for him, and so he hoped the twenty minute gap didn’t disgruntle her too much.

  ‘What’s the matter?” he asked her upon arriving at her desk, confused to see nothing amiss no one to help besides her. “Is there a patient here?”

“No, actually—but someone was here for you. He’s waiting outside if you’d like to see him.”

Draco cocked his head. “At two in the morning?”

She shrugged, disinterested. “He seemed like a cop.” Most American wizards didn’t make much distinction between muggle and wizarding vernacular—probably something to do with the vast numbers of muggle-born witches and wizards—and so “cop” was fairly interchangeable for Auror, around there. 

Draco’s breath caught. An Auror? To see him? But he hadn’t—unless they counted fighting, which they might have, but he hadn’t thought anyone knew about that. It was a fairly well-protected place, and plus, it was _muggle_. No self-respecting Auror would be poking around there.

“What—what did he look like?” Draco asked, his mouth dry.

“Dark hair,” she said, smiling.”Green eyes, glasses. A certain scar you might be familiar with. Tell me, Healer Malfoy, how did you convince the Boy Who Lived to come all the way across the pond to bring you coffee?”

 _“What?”_ Draco dashed to the door, where he saw Harry causally reading a newspaper on a bench by the front, lit from above by a bright streetlight. “Oh Merlin,” he muttered. If anything could have actually been worse than an Auror asking to see him, it was actually having _this_ Auror ask to see him. But even as he thought it, the tightness in his chest came back, as did the shortness of his breath.

The chill of the night air raised gooseflesh beneath his thin scrubs as he walked over to Harry, sitting down next to him. The other man looked up from his newspaper with a grin.

“Good morning!” he said cheerily. “It’s interesting, looking at the American news—very different from _The_ _Prophet_. I also got you a cup of coffee. I figured you could use it.”

Draco reached out a weary hand and took it, taking a generous sip and burning his tongue. He _needed_ caffeine, and immediately. “How did you know I was here?”

“Andy got your message and asked me if I could take Teddy instead,” he said. “I had work, though, so he’s going to be spending the day with his favorite redheaded uncle and cousin combination.”

“Weaslebee and his son? Is his name Hugo?”

“Mm-hmm,” Harry said, sipping his own coffee. “Last time Teddy and Hughey were together they almost gave Ron a stroke. Hugo wouldn’t stop crying, and Teddy knocked over a candle and nearly burnt the house down. We try to keep them separate unless Hermione or more than one adult is around. But I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Draco decided it was better to not reply and occupied himself with drinking half his coffee. “Do you have work now?”

“In about an hour,” Harry said. “I usually get up early though. I like mornings.”

Draco shuddered. “I hate mornings.”

“Probably because if you’re not working here all hours of the night, you’re up at the ring. Mornings wouldn’t be so bad if you let yourself sleep every once in a great while.”

“I don’t need a lecture on my sleeping habits,” Draco protested. “Caffeine and sleeping draughts can make up for poor circadian rhythm just fine.”

Harry shook his head. “Whatever you say, Healer Malfoy.”

The conversation lulled as Draco took another long drink and Harry continued perusing the paper.

“Thank you,” Draco said eventually, and with a little effort managed to add, “Harry. For the coffee.”

Draco watched a soft, pleased smile cross Harry’s face, warmth lighting his green eyes. He liked that expression. It scared him how much.

“You’re welcome, Draco. Anytime.”

Draco swallowed, staring into his cup. “I should get back,” he said, downing it before getting up. “Patients won’t observe themselves.”

Harry nodded and stood too. He did look good in his Auror robes, Draco noticed. Very professional, and they showed off his broad shoulders and the lean lines of his body much more nicely than his usual ratty T-shirts and jeans.

“I’m glad I got to see you.” Harry said, and smirked. “Teal is a good color on you.”

Draco smoothed some of the wrinkles in his shirt and _tsked_. “Scrubs don’t look good on anyone,” he muttered, crumpling his cup and tossing it in the trash. “But I’m glad you came, too. Have a good time playing the hero again today.”

Harry cocked his head, a grin tugging his lips. “Try not to fall asleep on the job.”

“How could I? It’s so enthralling, watching other people snore for eight hours,” Draco scoffed.  “Bye, Potter.”

He watched Harry’s face fall a bit, then. “Bye, Draco.”

Draco walked two steps before he hesitated. Turning back and walking quickly, he pecked Harry on the cheek. A dimple appeared, right near where his lips touched—Harry was trying not to smile too broadly.

“Bye, Potter,” Draco repeated, gentler this time than he was before.

“Bye, Draco.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some major angst

16.

 

 _Should I?_ Draco thought, his hand hovering over the cell phone.

He stared. Waiting for it to explode, perhaps, or fly up as though he’d cast a _Leviosa_ on it. But it did neither.

He decided against it, and squeezed the key in his pocket instead.

He tipped his chair back impatiently, a foot on the side of the table rocking him back and forth. Harry showed up after a few seconds, his hair dripping and his sweatshirt soaked, gasping for breath.

Draco wrinkled his nose and immediately cast drying and warming charms on him in quick succession, dropping all four legs of the chair to the floor. “Where did I summon you from? The bottom of the ocean?”

Harry’s skin pricked from the drying charm, but the pleasant, relaxing sensation of the warmth more than made up for it. “I was out for a run in the rain, actually,” he managed, still catching his breath.

“You couldn’t have waited until you could breathe before coming?” Draco asked bemusedly.

“I never know whether or not you’re in danger when you use that thing,” Harry said.

“I only ever use it in my apartment, so you can apparate,” Draco replied. “Of course I’m not in danger.”

Harry shrugged. “Better to be prepared.” He shook out his hair, returning it to its usual fluffy, nest-like state. “What’s up?”

“It’s about the ring.”

“Ah,” Harry said. “And here I was hoping it was a social call.”

Draco _huffed_ , but his eyes turned a few shades warmer. Harry liked watching that cloudy gray clear into something less troubled a bit each time he smiled.

The storm was back before long, though. “I want to go back again.”

Harry sat down at the kitchen table, where Draco was. “Why?”

 “I need to.”

“You give me a different answer every time.”

“I know.”

“So which one is it?”

“All of them, Harry.”

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.”

Harry gave him a pleading look. “Can you just try to explain it to me, Draco? Please? I hate watching you get hurt in there. You’ve been doing so _well_ the last few weeks, not going back.”

His stormy eyes became dark and ominous. Draco’s first instinct was to argue, but he knew Harry deserved more than that, now. And he hated it, because he wasn’t ready to let this information go, wasn’t ready to try to explain it or let him know about it.

His reasons for fighting were tangled and confusing, full of _too much_ and _not enough_ , and his motivations were painful and throbbed like a wound every time he thought of them. He did well when he didn’t acknowledge them, the memories and the actions that made him wither inside, that made him think _I must do better_ and _I never will_. The whispers that fought in the darkness of his mind and said _you are weak_ and how he tried to believe it when he argued _I am not_. The ones that said _you are the choices you made_ and _you are irredeemable_ and _you will always let them down_.

It was less about what happened and more about how what happened made him think now, and he knew that he couldn’t try to explain all of this to Harry without feeling torn open, forced to reveal the vulnerable parts of his mind when he was not ready. He knew he should anyway, but he also knew that if he did, he would destroy what they had.

It would be giving too much too soon, and he would blame Harry for it even though that wasn’t fair, and he would let the hurt and fear fester into something solid and immobile between them. He would devastate everything they had, and not because he wanted to—he would destroy it just because it would be the only thing he was capable of doing.

He shook his head, a few strands of white-blonde hair falling into his eyes. “I can’t, Harry,” he said hoarsely.

It wasn’t his words that gave Harry pause—he received rejection from Draco on a daily basis, most often numerous times a day. The waver in his voice was what really made Harry look at him. He looked miserable, which meant his mask wasn’t up like it usually was when Harry tried to broach this particular subject. That was enough to tell him that Draco was being truthful.

Harry put his hand on Draco’s, compelled by the urge to comfort him. “It’s okay,” he said earnestly, even though it wasn’t, not really.

Draco met his eyes and nodded. “I’m going back tonight.”

“…Does it have to be the same ring?” Harry asked, trying hard to rein his emotions in. It would do no good to fight with him, not if he was serious. It would just make him more impulsive, put him in more danger.

His eyes were steel when he said, “It does.”

Harry sighed. “You can never make anything easy.”

Draco smirked. “If I recall, you were always first to dash into danger.”

“That was a long time ago,” Harry muttered. “Try not to do anything reckless.”

 “Apparently not long enough.” Draco rose gracefully and crossed to his room to change. “You know I never do anything reckless.”

Harry didn’t think that was funny. “I don’t like this, Draco.”

Draco ignored him.

“You’ll want your cloak.”

 

_*_

 

Draco had always tried to hide his flaws in one way or another, but they always came out. He always wore them for everyone to see, in his actions, his mannerisms. In school, it had been through his attitude. His snark, his aggression, his obsession. It had manifested in childish pranks, immature jibes, pointless duels. Rebellion without a cause.

And then there had been a cause, one that he found he didn’t like after all.

He supposed he was still rebelling. He was still wearing his flaws. Just in a different way.

His thought process was more involved than it usually was before a fight, that day. Perhaps some part of him realized it would be one of his last. But Draco could never know for sure.

 

 

_*_

 

“Fuck off.”

In retrospect, this was probably not the best thing to say to Carl.

 

The fight had gone well. Like he meant it to. He had a reputation, now—it wasn’t every day that someone so spectacularly broke someone else’s arm in the ring, even one with as tarnished a reputation as the one he frequented. It put his opponents on edge, unnerved them. He liked that, even if he didn’t like how he’d achieved it. It made them easier to beat.

He needed to show the boss man that he wouldn’t be pushed around, and so he’d purposely left at a secluded exit, walking down the alley like he used to. He hoped Harry had seen him, and he knew Carl had.

He pushed past the shorter man, scowling at him as he tried to block his path and got a few steps away. With his back turned, Harry’s magic hit him like a blow, all force and urgency in the _Protego_ , and it nearly made him stumble.

Draco could feel things in other people’s magic sometimes. He didn’t know if it was like that for others, or maybe it was some residual effect of living perpetually surrounded by it. He knew which magic felt familiar, which magic felt strange. Which magic felt high-strung and intense, like Harry’s did just now.

 He twisted around to see that Carl, from a few feet away, had a strange, metal, tube-shaped contraption pointed at him. It was smaller than he expected from the harsh click it made, just like the one he’d heard in the meeting they’d had. 

He wasn’t sure what to make of it. It must have been some sort of weapon. Perhaps the barrel of it shot out some sort of muggle equivalent of a hex or curse? Draco thought he had heard of those things before. He had once seen someone get shot by _something_ muggle, falling and twitching like they had the jellylegs jinx cast on them. He hadn’t seen the weapon at the time—he’d been too busy stumbling away, along with the rest of the crowd—but he assumed this must be like it.

“The money,” Carl said, looking grave.

Draco strolled back to him, making sure his shoulders were relaxed and his strides long. He wanted to make sure this man knew how truly unintimidating he was, and his little muggle toy. He only stopped when the end of the weapon was inches away from his chest.

And that is when he said it.

 

_*_

 

Draco walked back to Carl, and Harry’s heart stopped.

 _No._ The thought roared through his mind alongside his pulse. _No, no, no, no, no, **no**_.

He doubted Draco knew what a gun did. If he did, why the hell would he press himself so close to one?

At that range, a shield spell could only do so much. It functioned like body armor—durable, but not invincible. Like the stunner, it would probably hurt him. Unlike the stunner, best case scenario it would probably break a few ribs, even if it did bounce off. Worst case scenario, it would hit him so hard he might start bleeding somewhere he shouldn’t.

And that’s when he heard Draco say it.

“Fuck off.”

Harry had never had a heart attack before, but he felt sure he’d come close, in that moment. That was _it_. He didn’t care if it made Draco angry, this strange game he was playing had gone too far.

“You worthless—” Carl started, cut off by Harry’s “ _Obliviate!”_ from across the alley, flung at him as he tore off the cloak. Carl’s hand twitched and the gun went off with a _bang_ into the wall beside them as he got hit with the charm.

Draco leapt about a foot in the air—when he’d seen the other muggle get hit by the _something_ , it certainly hadn’t sounded like _that_!

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Harry demanded, striding over in fast, crisp movements.

Draco could not answer. His heart was pounding so fast that his head was spinning. The shot had been so close, burrowing into the brick next to him—the sound of it rang in his ears. He felt something cold dripping down his cheek and realized that he'd been nicked by a piece of the ricochet. He stared at the weapon, now fallen and powerless, dropped from Carl’s hand as the man sat, dazed and confused, on the cement.

“Draco?” Harry asked, his anger icing over with fear instead. “Did it hit you? Are you hurt? Draco, _did it hit you_?”

Draco stared at the blood on his fingers and blinked, taking a rapid, deep gasp, and the world snapped back to precise focus. “What was that for?” he asked accusingly instead of answering, retorting with a question of his own. It was easier to channel his shock into anger than to think about what might have just happened. “I had it under control!”

“Do you have any clue what the hell that thing was?” Harry asked furiously. “You could have been killed!”

“Who are you?” Carl asked.

“You had the shield up!” Draco yelled, ignoring him.

“He pressed a fucking _gun_ into your chest! Shields don’t work that well!”

Draco crossed his arms. “I had it _under control_ ,” he hissed, venom in his voice.

“We’re leaving,” Harry announced, making a grab at Draco’s arm.

“Don’t _touch_ me like that!” he shouted, pushing him away. Or trying to. Harry had experience with manhandling incompliant assailants. Granted, most of the people he dealt with were criminals and not people who made his heart break a little. Unfortunately, Draco was coming very close to belonging in both categories.

Harry apparated them both to Draco’s flat because it was the first place he thought of. They landed in the space directly in front of the couch, both of them stumbling, seeing as Harry had barreled into Draco with all the grace of an angry water buffalo. Before Harry could take into account that the wards had actually accepted him in, Draco’s knees buckled and he landed on the couch, an _oof!_ for emphasis when Harry landed on top of him.

“Get _off_!” Draco growled, his voice rough with anger, shoving Harry onto the ground. He landed with a heavy, painful thump. Draco stepped over him and escaped a few feet away, and Harry was pretty sure the kick to his side along the way was intentional.

“Do you even know what a gun is?” Harry snapped, picking himself off the ground, even more upset now because in the light of the apartment he could see the slim, dripping cut on Draco's cheek - and what made him even angrier was Draco looked like he didn't even care.

“I don’t know and I don’t give a shit,” Draco retorted, his voice thick and grey eyes blazing above him. “Get the hell out of my flat.”

That was unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. How could he not know what a gun was? While interacting with dangerous, violent muggles? What the hell was he _thinking_? What the hell had Harry been thinking, letting him go, not noticing how utterly unprepared he was?

_I need to get him to listen to me._

Draco was always more irrational after his fights. His adrenaline was soaring high, his decisions were rash, and his emotions were explosive. But he needed Draco to know why he’d interrupted the altercation. He couldn’t just _leave_ him like this.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to speak in something more level than a yell. “Draco—”

“I said get the hell _out_! Draco shouted, obviously not of the same mind. “You’ve gone and ruined everything!”

“He would have killed you!” Harry roared, his plan of tranquility quickly aborted. Maybe attempting to get his attention by sheer force of volume would work. “You would have _died_!”

A sneer, the one that always got Harry’s blood boiling, obscured his features. “Of course I wouldn’t have,” he scoffed.

“Guns are murder weapons, you bloody idiot. Didn’t you see how fast it hit the pavement? That would have been your chest if I hadn’t stopped him.”

“You had a _shield up_ —”

“Which acts as body armor, not invincibility! Just because a bullet won’t go through you doesn’t mean it won’t shatter your ribs or stop your heart! You’re a fucking _healer_ , Draco, you should know all about blunt force trauma!”

“Shut _up!_ ” he yelled, gesticulating wildly. Harry thought for a second he might actually swing at him, but Draco’s hands remained balled in fists close to him—much like the defensive stance he took in his physical fights, Harry noted.  Draco threw himself backwards, as if getting away from Harry would be enough to stop the argument. “Shut up, I don’t _care_ , I—”

“You don’t care? What the hell do you mean you don’t care? About what? About almost dying in front of me? Giving me a fucking heart attack? What, Draco? What?” With every question he took a step closer to Draco, and Draco backpedaled, an enraged, hunted animal.

“ _Accio!_ ” Draco snapped, and large, ceramic serving bowl soared from the kitchen into his hand, from which he threw it directly at Harry’s head. He launched into a string of insults, one that didn’t quite sound like English.

Harry ducked and heard the ceramic shatter on the wall behind him. His eyes wide behind his specs and a little stunned by the adrenaline coursing through him, he wished he could have come up with something cleverer to say than, “Did you just speak French?”

The response Draco gave to him—which he should have expected—was to _Accio_ the bowl back and _Reparo_ it in midair, so the bowl, newly whole, soared back into his waiting hand. Harry would have been impressed if he’d had the time, but dodging the second throw took priority.

The third time Draco wielded the bowl at him, Harry decided to stand his ground. “I’m not moving,” he announced, tight-lipped, shoulders back, challenge in his eyes. “Hit me if you want, but I’m not moving.”

Draco scowled right back at him, the bowl held above his head.

With a shout of aggravation, he smashed it on the ground in front of him, the shatter it made resounding through the apartment as he stalked to the bathroom and locked himself in. “You fucking _bastard!”_ he screamed, as well as some other choice phrases in French far too fast for Harry to catch.

Harry didn’t have to speak the language to get the gist.

In the living room, Harry paced, tugging his hair out and finding pillows to scream in. In the bathroom, Draco buried his face in his hands, pressing his cut against the sleeve he balled in his palm, fingers so tense his nails left red marks on his skin and stomping his foot childishly on the tile from where he sat on the side of the bath.

The two were mirror images of frustration for a while, separated by the walls. But as the minutes passed, Harry’s anger lessened and turned to concern, whereas Draco’s became something watery and unpleasant, churning like nausea, like an illness.

Harry resigned himself to sit outside the door. He figured he would be doing this a lot if he kept up with Draco. Of course things couldn’t be easy with him—the successes of the days with Teddy and the morning at the hospital had lulled him into a false sense of security, lead him down a path that lied of easy companionship.

There was nothing about Draco that was easy, not ever. But that didn’t mean Harry was going to give up.

Draco clenched his jaw and pointedly ignored the shuffling he heard outside the door as Harry sat. He stared at the ground and tried to pretend like he was not there, like neither of them were.

“I couldn’t let you get hurt,” Harry said to the ceiling, his head resting against the door.

He was met with a solid _thud_ from behind him. He assumed it must have been Draco stomping his foot again, and he was correct.

“I hate you,” Draco said, his voice choked with emotion—so much so that Harry could barely hear it.

He wished he hadn’t. The words created a weight in his chest that seemed to drag him down, deflate him and knot deep in his stomach.

Harry stared at the cracks where the ceiling met the wall. “I don’t hate you, Draco.”

Draco wanted to scream. _He ruined it_ , he thought. His mind kept turning over to the muggle, on the ground. The forceful, piercing sound that weapon had made. Harry’s face in the darkness, bloodless with fury and other emotions Draco didn’t like to think about. _He ruined it, he ruined it._

“I care about you,” he continued. “Today…I was afraid.”

Draco didn’t want to, but he listened. _It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what he felt, he ruined it. I wanted to lose myself, and he ruined it._

“I-I—I don’t usually get scared. But I was. You scared me.”

Draco thought he was going to be sick. “Stop,” he said, a pit in his stomach.

“Please open the door, Draco.” His voice was soft, placating. There was a pleading quality to it that he’d never heard before.

Draco shook his head, burying his face in his arms. _I can’t do this_ , he thought. _I can’t do this._ His eyes stung. Breathing was difficult. Moving seemed laughable. And he felt dangerously close to a breakdown.

_He can’t see me like this._

“Please, Draco.”

Draco bit his lip hard and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He threaded his fingers roughly through his hair and tugged, hoping to distract himself, hoping to let some of this stupid, ridiculous bottled-up emotion _out_. It needed to get out. He couldn’t function. He couldn’t do anything.

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” Harry coaxed. He thought maybe if he could turn the conversation away from what they’d been fighting about, maybe then Draco would let his guard down a little.

Draco heard a soft chuckle from behind the door. “People always say it’s a romantic language. I bet it would sound a bit more so if you weren’t screaming.”

He knew Harry was trying to talk him down, and it was working, to a point. He didn’t feel like he wanted to hit something anymore. He didn’t want to scream. But he felt a tear well in his right eye and clenched his jaw against the overwhelming emotion behind it. He wouldn’t cry. Stupid Saint Potter wouldn’t make him cry. He was stronger than this. He had a grip on himself. He would stop behaving in such a deplorable manner and tell Potter to get the hell out of his flat instead of hiding in his own cursed bathroom. He was being pathetic and it was wholly unbecoming and it was not something a Malfoy _did_.

He gritted his teeth and gathered himself enough to stand, then walk, then open the door. “You need to leave,” he said, his consonants crisp, everything enunciated just so, like he’d been taught.

Harry, if anything, looked even more distraught than before. “Don’t do that,” he said—he _pleaded_ , in that terrible voice Draco wasn’t used to. He grabbed Draco’s hand and held it between his own, and Draco stared—they didn’t hold hands. They’d never held hands. It was not something they did.

Even more surprising, Harry pulled him into a hug, one he didn’t push away.

He felt so weak for wanting Harry there.

“You can talk to me,” Harry said, his hand on the back of Draco’s head, pressing his face into his chest while the other arm wrapped around his back. “Hell, you can even shout at me. Just don’t blank me out like that.”

Draco didn’t know what to do with his hands. He didn’t know what to do with himself. This was not what he expected. This was not how it was supposed to go. Potter was supposed to leave, because that’s what people did, and then he would go back to shoving away the emotions he didn’t like feeling and that would be that.

Much to his horror, he felt tears once again prick his eyes, more now than there had been before. That was _not_ how it was supposed to happen. But Harry wasn’t letting him go, and an insistent part of him didn’t care about how things were supposed to go, no matter how much the rest of him balked.

Draco’s hands gripped the front of Harry’s shirt. “I hate you,” he whispered fiercely, still trying to keep the tears at bay, still trying to get himself under control. “I hate you, I _hate_ you….I ha-hate y-you so m-mu—”

He couldn’t speak. He was crying too hard.

Harry stayed with one hand in his hair, the other around his back, holding him steady all the way through it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day update! Draco's still rather difficult in this chapter, though there's a bit more insight on his breakdown. Some fluff, too, because I couldn't resist.

 

17.

 

Draco went to his lectures, but they were lost on him. All he could think about was that night.

Harry had done more than he expected. More than he should have. More than Draco thought he would have been comfortable with, but he was.

He had been wonderful, perfect. He had been there for him. He had stayed through all of it. He stayed until Draco’s head hurt and his eyes ran dry, until his throat was hoarse and his face felt hot and red.

The only redeemable factor that saved him from complete and utter humiliation was that at least when he cried it tended to be fairly quiet. It was something he’d taught himself when he was young, because his father disapproved of emotional outbursts and he’d done everything he could to make his father proud. It sounded worse than it was—when he was young, he mostly just cried about having a bad haircut, or not getting the right toy for his birthday. The skill had come in handy when Voldemort lived in the same house as him, too.

When he was little, when he had learned it, it was alright. He never had serious things to cry about. Like the Dark Lord living in his house—he’d been grateful, then, for his learned skill. Or when his father became nonresponsive. Or when his father started attacking the house elves. Or when his father almost hurt his mum.

Or about how he felt like his life needed to look perfect for her, even though his grades were slipping and his professors expected too much, because she had tried so hard to get them to where they were. Even after the reparations, even after he got rejected from every university he applied to in Britain, she still fought and always would for him, and he couldn’t let her down.

No, now that he was older, he cried about how he put himself into dangerous situations because at least it was something other than aimless anxiety, even if the other emotions blocking it out were fear or rage or self-preservation, because he couldn’t seem to muster up any other type.

How he got too caught up, too competitive to let his opponents, to let his enemies win even though he knew he could, knew he should, and that wasn’t why he started this.

How he felt like he deserved the pain for what he’d done.

He cried because he was sad, because he was scared, because he was lost. He cried because he’d been so close, _so close_ to dying that day. It had been there. It had been right there. And he could have died, he saw that. Like Harry said. But he had been too caught up, too confident, too reckless—a part of him wanted it, wanted the pain, and that part scared him, because that part had almost won. He cried because he thought he had wanted someone to hurt him, hurt him badly, hurt him enough to…but he was wrong. He didn’t want that, not at all. And now he knew it.

And knowing scared him too, because it meant he had to have a future.

And in the recesses of his mind, behind barrier after barrier, a part of him knew that he cried because he finally had someone who he could talk to, who was offering to _listen_ , really listen, and he was too scared to accept it.

Harry was right there, all the time, and the only time he felt he could ever go to him anyway was in a crisis, or when he knew, absolutely, that he had all the power. He needed to know that he could walk away and Harry wouldn’t. That he could be fine, even if Harry wasn’t.

He didn’t know if he could handle getting attached, and he knew that uncertainty compelled him to ruin whatever they had. And he cried about that, too.

Somehow, at some point, they had ended up on the floor. Draco was curled in a ball, knees in tight, head down, face covered in his hands. Harry pulled him into his chest, his knees bracketing him, arms around his shoulders. One hand stroked his hair gently and the other rubbed his shoulder, and every time Draco got particularly bad he could hear him whispering comforting nonsense into the top of his head.

Draco wore himself out. He hadn’t thought himself capable of so much emotion. He couldn’t remember crying so much before Harry had become a part of his life.

He sniffled uncomfortably and summoned tissues for himself, feeling disgusting as he cleaned himself up. Harry made no move to leave him. After he had Vanished what needed Vanishing, Harry took his hand from Draco’s hair and brought it instead to cup his cheek, gently guiding his face up to look into his own.

Draco turned his head away, breaking out of Harry’s gentle hold, acutely aware of his bloodshot, swollen eyes and flushed cheeks. He looked terrible, red-faced and disheveled. “Don’t look at me,” he murmured, humiliated.

Harry kissed the side of his face, his forehead, the top of his head—anywhere he could reach. “I like looking at you,” he said, cheek resting on his hair.

Draco scoffed, incredulous but too exhausted to move away. “Ridiculous,” he croaked.

Harry just held him closer.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Draco said after a while, his head resting on Harry’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“Why?”

Draco shook his head. “I…I’m not used to this.”

“Funnily enough,” Harry said lightly, his hand running up and down Draco’s back gently, “I figured that one out by myself.” He was quiet for a beat. “Is there anything I can do?”

Draco made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh, a worn, tired sound. “You’ve already done too much.”

“I’d do it again.”

“I know you would.”

“Good,” Harry said solidly. And then he considered, from Draco’s difficult and struggling perspective, and he figured he should ask, “Is it good for you, knowing that?”

Draco stayed silent for so long Harry didn’t think he’d answer, staring at the fabric of Harry’s shirt, his fingers playing idly across it. “Yes,” he answered finally. “And no.”

Harry nodded. “Ah. That makes everything very clear.”

Draco managed a tiny smile and pushed himself up. “I can…I’ll go make us some tea.”

He left Harry forlorn on the floor because he didn’t know what to do with this tired, vulnerable feeling, but Harry kept his spirits up, as he always did, and followed him into the kitchen.

Their night was quiet after that, so very different from just an hour or two before. Draco made tea and they drank it on the couch together. Draco sat next to Harry. Harry pulled him into his side, and Draco let him. He pretended to read a book, but in fact he just read the same sentence, a dozen or two times.

“It’s anglicized,” Draco said finally, breaking the silence. “My name, I mean.”

Harry wanted to look at him, but that required moving away, and he wanted to stay close to him more. “Yeah?”

He felt Draco nod. “Mal-fois, in French.”

“Does it mean anything?”

Draco barked a self-deprecating laugh. “Bad faith. Ironically.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he just ran his hand up Draco’s arm again, and let the silence be.

“I should go to sleep,” Draco said eventually, his voice gravelly still from his outburst before, tossing the book on the pillow beside him. “You should too.”

Harry nodded. “Alright.”

He hesitated still, but only a little. “Thank you, Harry.”

That smile was back, this time gentler than most of the ones he’d given before. “You’re welcome, Draco.”

Draco curled his arms around Harry’s neck and pressed his face into his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “I did.”

Draco stayed there, running his fingers through the thick hair on the back of Harry’s head, until Harry moved, bringing him up for a gentle kiss.

“I’ll see you later?” Harry asked, pressing his forehead to Draco’s.

“Sure,” Draco replied, overwhelmed.

He nodded, giving him another small kiss on the lips. “I’ll message you.”

“Alright.”

And then he got up, and was gone.

 

_*_

 

Draco didn’t know what he wanted.

The little device Harry had given him buzzed earlier in the day. It had a question on the front screen. _How are you today?_

Like always, Draco didn’t answer it.

He didn’t like that Harry had seen him like that.

He didn’t like it, not at all. It went against many very important things his father had taught him. Not to be vulnerable in front of people who would use it against him. To be strong, to be a leader, to be an example. Not that he had to set any sort of example for the Boy Who Lived.

Harry was the only person who ever got him to scream like that. The only person who ever got him to show himself like that. But at least he hadn’t scared him away, he hoped. Harry had had time to consider—if he hadn’t sent Draco the message, he would have worried. And he knew he never would have spoken to him first.

Draco was trying to get over it. Both what he’d been taught and his discomfort. But it was slow going.

 _This is why I don’t date_ , Draco thought exhaustedly.

But Draco thought about feeling safe in Harry’s arms, Harry pulling him in close after that terrible fight, stroking his hair, kissing his face. His bright green eyes, warm and understanding and concerned. His stupid hair, the way he smiled at him, the way he smiled with Teddy.

 _Maybe that’s why I should_.

 

_*_

 

Harry felt the key warm up in his pocket as he was making himself breakfast. Hurriedly he set his coffee down and reached into his jeans for it.

 _What could he possibly be doing in the middle of the day?_ Harry thought, just before he arrived in Draco’s apartment.

The blonde had on a soft red hoodie with the capital letters B.U. in white across the chest, wearing casual, muggle jeans, the likes of which Harry hardly ever saw on Draco. He was always wearing finely cut trousers, or athletic clothes, or scrubs. Or, that one time, pyjama pants.

Draco was sitting at the couch, his feet tucked underneath him, and looked up at Harry from beneath his fringe as though he couldn’t believe he was actually there. The key flashed in his fingers as he twirled it to and fro between them.

“Is…what…?” Harry asked, confused. Everything seemed to be fine. Why was he here?

Draco smirked. “Seat?” he asked, motioning to the cushion next to him.

Harry did, composing himself. “Casual Friday?” he asked. He was still perplexed, just hiding it better.

Draco plucked at his sweatshirt. “I just got out of class,” he admitted. “Most students don’t wear robes. It makes them stand out on the street.”

“Do you wear clothes this all the time?”

Draco shrugged. “Well, I’m not wearing my formal robes around the flat.”

Harry hummed appreciatively. Seeing Draco in muggle clothes was pleasant. And he bet his bum looked fantastic in jeans.

“I want to apologize,” Draco addressed the floor, pointedly not looking at Harry.

“What for?” Certainly not for throwing things at his head, Harry knew. He would never get an apology for that.

“My…outburst. It was demeaning and pathetic, and I regret that you saw me in that state. I did, however, tell you to leave numerous times, so the fault isn’t all my own.”

Harry’s eyebrows reached for his hairline. _Well, then_. _I guess I was wrong_. “It’s alright,” he chuckled. “I’ve had worse things flung at me than a kitchen bowl.”

“I don’t mean that,” Draco clarified. “You deserved that. I mean afterwards.” He didn’t elaborate—Harry thought it would actually pain him to admit outright that he’d been crying—but he knew what he was talking about regardless.

“Don’t apologize for that,” Harry said, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder. “Never apologize for that. I’m glad that you trusted me with that. You don’t need to feel bad about needing to c…about showing emotion,” Harry amended at the last second, directly after catching a death glare from Draco’s sidelong stare and pulling his hand back before it was bitten off.

“It’s not something Malfoys do,” Draco glowered.

“I think you’re less Malfoy and more Draco than you used to be,” Harry replied.

Draco faced him, that same flinty, challenging look on his face again. “I am both.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Well, then,” he began thoughtfully. “Thank you for letting me see Draco, instead of Malfoy, in that moment. It means a lot to me.”

Draco sniffed. “It should.”

He got up abruptly and started making tea. He needed to do something with his hands, but he still felt Potter’s stare boring into him.

“I don’t date,” Draco said suddenly, staring at the wall above the kettle.

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear the first time.” Harry hoped he got the joking tone he was aiming for, though he was afraid a bit of anxiety may have slipped through. Did Draco just call him here to tell him he didn’t want to continue what little they had?

Draco was so pale, Harry could see the back of his neck flush from behind him. “Would you…would you walk with me?”

“Walk where?”

Draco shrugged. “Around. I don’t know.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, a smile forming. “Just for a walk?”

“Yeah, and I dunno, coffee or something…or whatever. It’s fine.” Draco put the kettle down on the stove with more force than strictly necessary, obviously getting flustered and frustrated. “You don’t have to.”

 _Oh_ , Harry thought, Draco’s point finally striking him. Draco didn’t want to say he dated, but this…unless he was very wrong, it sounded very much like a date. “Hey, I would love to,” Harry said quickly, trying to adopt a reassuring tone of voice. “Wherever you want to go.”

Draco nodded. “The Common is nice. It’s not too cold out.”

“Let’s go there, then.”

Draco nodded, fiddling with the knobs on the stovetop and eventually turning them off, leaving the water cold in the kettle. He strode out of the room, looking back to make sure Harry would follow him.

Harry could feel Draco’s nervousness. It flowed off of him in waves, but he was absolutely giddy. He couldn’t believe Draco had actually called him over just to be with him on a nice day, and not because he was about to fling himself into another dangerous endeavor. And Harry would definitely think of it as a date, because that’s what it was.

Draco left his apartment and walked down the stairs. Harry followed him, marveling. He had never seen the inside of Draco’s apartment building, only the inside of his flat. The doors were all the same color green, the paint on the high walls flaked in some places. The stairway echoed, and the stairs were worn and dipped in the center from use.

“Is this a muggle building?” Harry asked, slightly astonished.

“Yeah,” Draco replied. “Most of the kids in my class live in muggle student apartment buildings. They’re cheap, in a good location, and the exchange rate from Galleons to dollars is in our favor. It makes sense.”

“Yeah…” Harry agreed, thinking it didn’t make much sense at all. Draco? Living in student accommodation? The idea was almost as absurd as him involved in a fight club.

Once they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Draco led him through the crowds around Park Street station and into the heart of the commons. He always stayed far away from the side of the road, and when they got to a large intersection they couldn’t avoid, Harry watched his hands clench into fists as they crossed the street. It seemed that even living in a city hadn’t made him any less wary of automobiles.

Harry reached out and tried to hold his hand as they walked, but Draco brushed him away, and Harry let him. He watched Draco’s hand go to his arm again, the way his shoulders hunched, and he though he was frustrated Draco kept brushing him off, he felt heartsick at the way Draco seemed troubled about it himself.

He was awkward, standoffish, flighty. Harry knew this already. He had known it going into this. _He can’t help it_ , he reminded himself, even though it hurt.

Draco stopped in the middle of the park, apparently coming to something of the same conclusion. He was conflicted. He wanted to be there, wanted to spend time with Harry, maybe even really…date Harry. But he also didn’t. He had also been taught that publicly displaying affection was wrong, especially if it was affection for another man. He didn’t want to be a spectacle.

He wanted to be independent. He didn’t want to incessantly yearn for yet another person’s approval. The best way to do that was to keep them away. He knew that.

He had learned that people always turned on him, in the end. The only exception had been Narcissa, and she was extraordinary. He didn’t want to know what would happen if Harry, the golden boy of the wizarding world, turned on him. He would never be able to return to Britain. He was in too deep already, and he knew it. There was no turning back now. He just had to trust that Harry wouldn’t, or he would hurt them both. But he didn’t know if he could stake so much on trust. He had never been good at it, even before.

And this time wasn’t like the other times. They weren’t with Teddy. They weren’t at the ring. They weren’t talking about his father. Neither of them were at work. They had no objective for being here, other than just being together. Being together and getting to know each other. That had never happened before, and it deeply unsettled Draco. He didn’t know if he was ready for Harry to get to know him any better than he already did. He wasn’t good at letting people in—he’d built walls for a reason. If Harry managed to worm his way through them, he could hurt him. Really, truly hurt him.

“I don’t think…I don’t know if I can do this, after all,” Draco admitted. “This was a mistake.”

Harry swallowed down the heavy thing creeping up his throat and tried to be reasonable. _He’s freaking out again_ , he thought tiredly. _Merlin, Draco._

At that moment, he wished he were Teddy’s age. To be able to stomp one’s feet on frustration seemed such a blessing. “We’re only spending time together, Draco.”

“Are we?” he asked, looking at Harry with that little line between his eyebrows and a frown on his lips. “Is that only what we’re doing?”

“For now, yeah.” Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

Draco pursed his lips.

“Try not to make this more complicated than it has to be,” Harry said, resisting his impulse to go to him, wrap him up and hold him close and try to make him stay. “Please. I know it’s hard.” _Apparently, though, I don’t know enough._

Draco glared, his scowl just as acidic as it had been during their school years. “It’s not that simple.”

Harry sighed. “Why not?”

Draco shook his head and laughed, a mirthless sound. “Are you going to try to play psychologist? Everything that complicates this, it’s all me. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is.”

“So you’re just going to accept it?” Harry asked, frustrated.  He thought Draco wanted the same things he did. He knew he did. He wouldn’t have kissed him and let Harry kiss him back otherwise. “You’re just going to act like you’re unlovable and leave it at that?”

Draco took a step back, hurt briefly crossing his features before the scowl overtook it. “I never said I was unlovable,” he snapped. “But I’m not going to apologize for being difficult.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology,” Harry argued. “I just want you to trust me, Draco.”

He shook his head. Locks of blonde fell into his eyes, obscuring his face. “I’m not good at trusting people.” _You deserve better than me._

“Don’t trust me, then,” Harry amended. “But fight for me. You’re plenty good at that.”

Draco looked at him helplessly.

“I know this is difficult for you. _I know_. But I’ll do what I have to in order to make this work. We could be good together, Draco. I want to be with you. If that means waiting for you to realize it too, I can do that. I’m just asking for a little bravery.”

Draco clenched his jaw and fell into one of his long silences, the ones that Harry was never sure he’d fill.

Draco never did say anything to fill it. Eventually, he just continued walking, a deep line between his eyebrows and a scowl still marring his features. But he took Harry’s hand as he passed. And when Harry twined their fingers together, Draco didn’t brush him off.

It was a start.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just forewarning, there's probably going to be less than five chapters more of this story--I still have to do some edits and write a bit more, but that's the current trajectory.
> 
> Also warnings here for angst again.

18.

 

Harry ran his hands through his hair, sighing. He loved his job, he really did. But sometimes being an Auror was the pits.

“We have to finish up that case,” Michelle said from across the room. Partners were usually paired in the same office, and though Ron was back from paternity leave, they couldn’t move him back to where Michelle was currently stationed until they closed the Cavanaugh case. She’d put her feet up on her desk and her hair pulled in a messy bun, her robes thrown cavalierly over her button-down and trousers in a blatant disregard for the dress code, as usual. “I can’t just say he got away. We have so many loose threads, Harry—they have to tie onto _something_.”

“We should talk to his brother again,” Harry sighed. “Maybe he’ll say something he hasn’t already.”

Michelle bit the inside of her cheek. “He already has all his answers practiced and recited. I think we should go over the surveillance footage from his station and his house one more time. We might have missed something.”

“Do you really think it’ll do that much good?” Harry asked. They’d already watched the footage once before, and it had involved not a lot other than the same image of a drab factory interior, replicated for hours. The few people who did pass through were most certainly not Cavanaugh, but workers on the factory floor—Cavanaugh’s shady drug company had been stationed directly underneath it, a fantastic cover.

“It can’t hurt,” Michelle said.

 

_*_

 

It didn’t, either. Especially when Harry was struck by a man’s face on the camera as he glanced up—a man who wasn’t Cavanaugh, but was in fact the man he had chased. And the time stamp on the film was placed after he’d been taken in.

“He must have Polyjuiced himself to evacuate any of his remaining evidence while the rest of his men were tied up with us,” Harry marveled. “Ballsy, that is.”

“Ballsy, yes—stupid, too. I bet if we ask around they could give us some information. We can trace his signature and see where he may have apparated to. If we don’t find anything, we’ll declare it a cold case, and move on. I’ll move out, Ron’ll move back into his desk, and we can all forget the massive blight on my pride this has been.”

Harry chuckled. “You were outstanding undercover and you know it. But sure, let’s go.”

And so, they gathered up their things, and they left.

_After all, it can’t hurt._

 

_*_

 

Draco was pulled out of class by the Dean, the expression on his normally placid and earnest face was more drawn and grim than he was used to seeing. Even when reprimanding him about his coursework, the Dean had tried to look comforting and sympathetic. Now he just looked gravely serious, and didn’t say much except to ask Draco to follow him.

He stopped short once he saw the person in the Dean’s floo. Suddenly the Dean’s uncharacteristic mannerisms made sense.

“Whatever you think I’ve done,” Draco said, “I haven’t.”

The Weasel scowled in the fireplace. _That prick_ , was Draco’s immediate thought. _I can’t afford to be taken out of class to indulge this idiot._

“It’s not about you, Malfoy.”

Draco glared fiercely. “Then why the hell are you calling me?”

He paused, trying to choose his words.

 

“Harry’s missing.”

 

 

 

_*_

 

 “You have no idea where he is?” Draco yelled over his shoulder, jogging through his flat to his room.

Ron’s mouth was a thin line as he followed him out of the floo. “We’re working on it. Harry and Michelle went to track down some witnesses in the Cavanaugh case, but now we’ve lost a trace on them.”

_Working on it._ They had no idea where Potter was. If the tracing spell went out, he could be anywhere. He was only with one other Auror. And he wasn’t invincible—Draco remembered the wheeze in his breath that time he’d been struck by the stunner. He had a bad feeling. He had a very bad feeling.

“What kind of imbecilic excuse is that?”

“Why the hell are we even in your flat?” Ron asked, aggravated. “We’re wasting time. I’m supposed to bring you to the DMLE!”

“Harry and I have been corresponding,” Draco said icily, rifling through his drawer to try to find the muggle contraption, where he’d hidden it when he didn’t like the bussing it made. “I have a key with a summoning charm on it.” _And a noisy, muggle rectangle._

“The wha—” Ron started to ask, but he was cut off by Draco’s hand in his face as he thrust the key at him, snatched from off the top of his dresser.

“Give this to your loutish friends,” he said acidly. “If they’re worth their paychecks, they should be able to reverse-engineer the charm on it.”

Ron went to take it, but Draco held it close for another one, two, three, counting in tandem with his beating heart. He didn’t explain why, though he knew Weaslebee thought he was doing it just to be a dick. It was important to him to try anyway but he _knew_ it was more important to give it to the Aurors so they could find Harry—reverse engineering the charm was simple, Draco knew. And he could give it up. He had the mobile. That was supposed to be better. Harry had said it was better. He said they could use it to talk.

Draco had never used it to talk, but Harry said.

He _said_.

But he still had to try the key.

And of course, he didn’t arrive. He knew he wouldn’t, though part of him had hoped.

“Give me that,” Ron said irritably, snatching it.

Maybe he was just caught in a chase, like last time. Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe they were overreacting. But Draco didn’t think so, staring at the mobile.

“You have a muggle device?” Ron asked incredulously. “What is this?”

“It’s a mobile. Does it matter? I’ve already given you the key, Weaslebee, that’s all you should need.”

Ron took his arm and started trying to walk him back to the floo.“I need to get you back to the Aurors, too, Malfoy. You’re a potential suspect. Harry’s gone missing and _you_ are the only one with a functioning magical object with anything even remotely like a tracking charm cast with his signature.”

“I was _in class, literally across an ocean._ Even you sluggish dimwits at the DMLE should be able to figure out I wasn’t involved, Weaslebee.” _But the Mark on my arm speaks louder than I do anyway._

“Harry told me he’s been seeing you. Even if you weren’t involved in the Cavanaugh case directly, it’ll do well to have you in just in case you’ve noticed anything and I’m not going to sit on my ass twiddling my thumbs while Harry might be in danger just to indulge your ego, Malfoy. Though if you want to fight me I can oblige you, but I promise I’ll win. This is an investigation—you could be charged with obstruction of justice. And it may come as a shock to you, but I don’t want that, and I know you don’t either.”

“I don’t care what you think of me,” Draco hissed, but went with him, stumbling as Ron dragged him back to his living room and still clutching the mobile in his hand. It was important that he have it. It was important that he hold it, that it be close to him. He could hit the Weasel later.

If it helped Harry, he would go, no matter how much he hated the Ministry.

The searing red of alarm saturated his mind. The only thing he could think about was Harry. Missing. Lost. In pain. In danger.

“Come on,” Ron grunted, dragging them both into the floo.

The Ministry was a whirlwind of activity. Ron cut through it with a hand clasped tightly around Draco’s upper arm and threw him down in a seat next to his desk. “Sit there,” he instructed curtly, and then disappeared in the flurry.

Draco held his head in his hands, mobile solid in his pocket. He hated feeling helpless. He didn’t know what to do. He’d tried so hard to get away from this feeling, the one that dogged him through the war, to the aftermath and across his father’s illness. Yet here it was, back again.

He sat there for far too long, watching people walk back and forth purposefully with glassy eyes and trying not to think, trying to hold back his panic and twirling the mobile in his fingers.

“Mister Malfoy?” A larger man walked up to him. He didn’t look particularly happy, but then, neither did Draco.

Draco followed him numbly into an interrogation room, one that was exactly the same as the one he’d been placed in after the war, before the trials. He sat down on a hard backed wooden chair in front of a mirror, one of those one-way windows, and waited for someone to come in.

He tried not to think about the trials.

He tried not to think about Harry.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.


	19. Chapter 19

 

19.

 

 

The first message in a long string of them looked like this:

_Hi Draco,_

_I just wanted to say again, I’m sorry if I was too forward yesterday, but I meant what I said and I hope this doesn’t change things between us. I like spending time with you._

_Alright?_

_-H_

And then:

_Hi Draco,_

_I’m probably overreacting, but I haven’t heard from you yet and want to make sure you’re alright. Tell me if you’re going to do anything reckless? Please?_

_-H_

 

And:

_Yesterday was nice. Maybe sometime we can do it again? The kissing part, not the endangering your life part._

_I meant what I said. Call me whenever. You’re brilliant, I know you don’t need my help to figure out a phone._

_-H_

_I don’t know if you actually look at these or not. I doubt it._

_Work is boring today, just paperwork and filing._

_Distract me?_

_-H_

_Dinner with Teddy?_

_-H_

 

_I should stop sending these. You never respond. I could probably say just about anything I want here and you would never know._

_Please stop fighting, Draco._

_I worry about you. I don’t want you to get hurt._

_Please, Draco._

 

 

And finally, the last one:

_How are you today?_

 

Draco read all the messages, and then he re-read them, and then he re-read them again.

Some cynical part of him knew it was useless, but he still tried to type anyway, his fingers sluggish and clunky on the tiny pad, searching for the miniscule letters. It was a frustrating lesson in patience, something he never had much of—but he had a lot of time, in this room, alone with his anxiety. And something was better than nothing.

His first was a clumsy, _Whjeree are you  ?_

He wasn’t sure when he should expect a reply. If he was even going to get one. He wished he’d responded to Harry, even once, just to see how this worked. But he must have gotten it. Draco always got all of his messages.

He tried to write more, but the buttons were too small and it took too long to leave a proper note. If Harry would even see it, if he had the time, if he was well enough.

He took a deep, steadying breath and tried again, less ambitious. This time, he simply wrote _Harry._

And then _Harry_ again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

_Harry, tell me where you are._

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

He typed until his fingers cramped and his eyes became so dry it hurt to blink.

He never received an answer.

_Harry. Please._

 

 

_*_

 

The door opened, the hinges protesting loudly. Draco stood up so fast he knocked his chair over when the man finally entered the room, the scrape of its legs on the concrete grating and jarring after so long in silence.

“Is he alright?” Draco demanded. “Is he okay?”

“Sit back down, Mister Malfoy,” the man said, but Draco couldn’t be deterred.

“Tell me he’s alright,” he replied, stepping up to get in his face, his lips pursed, eyes wide, and face drawn with anger and worry. “I need to know he’s alright.”

“You need to sit down, or if you cannot, I’ll have to restrain you,” the man said resolutely with a glint in his eye.

After a moment’s hesitation, staring the man in the eye to make sure he knew he wasn’t cowed, Draco sat.

“My name is Auror Robards,” he said. “Consider it an honor that the Head Auror is questioning you.”

Draco scoffed. Some _honor_. “Am I a suspect?”

Robards raised an eyebrow. “Not unless you give us reason to think so.”

“I want Harry back here just as much as you do,” Draco said.

“Then you won’t mind answering a few questions,” Robards retorted.

Draco bit his tongue and nodded slowly.

If it helped Harry, he would do it.

And he did.

For hours.

Robards was switched out at one point by a different Auror, female, a no-nonsense expression perpetually on her face and steel gray hair. The person was different, but the questions continued, about every possible aspect of Draco’s life, his relationship with Harry, his relationship with Teddy, his relationship with his parents. What he was doing in school, where he went. He told them everything, even though it hurt. Even things he never told anyone. Everything except the fighting.

He was exhausted by the end of it.

“Would you like anything to eat or drink?” the woman asked him. “There’s a vending machine down the hall, I can get you something.”

“Just water,” Draco said, his voice raspy from overuse.

She nodded. “I’m still under orders to keep you in here until we find Auror Potter,” she said. “Your close contact with him makes you a suspect until otherwise cleared.”

_That, and my namesake_ , Draco thought miserably. “Fine.”

She went to close the door behind her, and was stopped by Draco’s hasty “Wait.”

“Can you,” he asked, “can you please leave the door open?” Having it shut was too much. It felt too much like he was a prisoner again. Even though he still had his wand and wasn’t in handcuffs, the claustrophobia of the little room suffocated him.

She hesitated. “You’re not allowed to leave without notifying an Auror, and you’re not allowed into any of the offices.”

“I know.” He wasn’t planning on leaving until he knew exactly where Harry was.

Eventually, she nodded. “I’ll be back with that water for you.”

 Once she was gone, Draco slumped back down in his seat.

He hoped they found him soon.

God, he hoped they did.

 

_*_

 

It was just like before, and at the same time, it was totally different.

Then, he hadn’t known if his parents were going to go free. If he was going to go free. He’d rather die than be subjected to a lifetime of Azkaban.

It was the second time in his life that he really wanted to. But then Harry had saved him.

Harry had testified for him. Stupid Saint Potter, always so giving and selfless and righteous. He hated him then, and right now, he hated him even more.

_He’s alright_ , Draco thought forcefully each time the panic started to rise, each time he checked the little screen and still saw it blank. _He’s alright, he’s alright_.

He hadn’t been one to pick at his nails. It was a disgusting habit, one that he thought had died with the war.

_I need to write to Mum,_ he thought in a panic. _She needs to know where I am. What if something’s happened with Father? What if he’s not feeling well again? What if she needs to get in touch with me and doesn’t know where I am? What if he’s tried to hurt her again?_

He knew the thoughts were irrational. His father hadn’t been violent for months. And though his state still weighed on him, he presented no immediate threat. It was just his thoughts spiraling, he knew. But knowing didn’t make him feel any better.

His thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of activity beyond the door, hurried footsteps and yelling. He got up and walked to the door, ripping off another little bit of his thumbnail.

“—found them, in 137—”

“—critically wounded—“

“—wards around the building—“

“—Sectumsempra—“

_Sectumsempra_.

Unknowingly, Draco started to walk towards the Auror’s offices, where all the commotion was. His head was spinning. He was holding the mobile so hard the ridges pinched at the skin of his palm.

Someone took his shoulder in a strong hand. He looked vaguely familiar. Brown hair, nondescript features. He could have been anyone, Draco thought vaguely.

“You’re a civilian,” the person said, not unkindly. “You should get back in the room, some of the cases here are classified.”

“Is Harry alright?” Draco asked, his voice strained and a higher pitched than usual.

“Come on back with me, Draco, please. I can’t tell you anything yet, they’re still investigating—but I’ll get you something to eat, that might calm you down.”

“I don’t want something to eat!” Draco protested shrilly. _Sectumsempra. He was hit by Sectumsempra._ “I want to know if he’s alright!”

“Do you remember me?” the Auror asked. “I’m Terry Boot. We were in the same year as Hogwarts.”

Draco rounded on him, finally actually focusing on the person he was talking to. “I don’t care who the hell you are,” he hissed. “Either let me see Harry or let me go find him.”

“I know it’s hard, but I don’t know if he’s still in the field, or in a hospital, or coming back here. You can’t interrupt an ongoing case. You’re going to have to sit a while longer and be patient.”

“ _Patient_?” Draco sneered. “I have _been_ patient. I am done _being patient_ —”

“It’s either that,” Boot said resignedly, “or we can handcuff you to the interrogation table. Your choice. I’d rather no one be restrained though, personally.”

Draco was still breathing heavily. He clenched his teeth. He wanted to give Boot a good comeback, but he was too distraught to think of one. He kept his eyes wide and stared above Boot’s head as he felt tears start to form in the corner of his eye from frustration. _This bastard is not going to see that_ , he thought resolutely, grinding his teeth so much it was painful.

He marched back into the room and threw himself down in the chair, his elbows on his knees and his palms pressed into his eyes.

_Sectumsempra. Sectumsempra. Sectumsempra._

He could think of nothing else.

 

_*_

 

When it had happened to him, it was almost like relief.

At first, intense fear and shame. Of course. Potter had caught him crying, alone and pathetic, hiding in a bathroom away from the world. That was almost worse than the Dark Lord himself walking in. And so he’d done the first thing he could, and lashed out.

He hadn’t expected the response it had gotten.

_Pain_. Searing, mind-numbing pain, so intense he couldn’t even scream. He was choking on it. Red, everywhere. Seeping on the ground, burning through his mind.

And then as his head started swimming and his vision became foggy, he started to feel like he was floating. Lightness, for the first time since the war started, for the first time since long before then.

Completely numb to himself, he saw the blood on the tiles with all the detachment of a stranger. And Saint Potter, stupid Saint Potter was crying.

Draco didn’t want to die, ever. But he figured, in that moment, this was a better way than any.

A martyr. Fighting Harry Potter himself. His parents would be spared, honored. His name would rest in glory. He wouldn’t have to kill anyone.

He wouldn’t have to kill anyone.

Even by killing him, the Chosen One saved him. Spared him. Kept him from doing the one thing he couldn’t.

He didn’t cry when he thought he was dying.

 

Instead, he cried when he woke up.


	20. Chapter 20

20.

 

“Draco?” A voice and a hand on his shoulder roused him from an uncomfortable, troubled sleep. “Draco, wake up.”

Draco bolted upright, turning his neck violently to see who was shaking him awake and giving himself a crick.

“Harry’s at St Mungo’s,” Boot got out, and then Draco was running.

 

_*_  

 

The press was rabid when he got there. He had to slog through a whole crowd camped out to the front, waiting to talk to someone about the Great Harry Potter wounded in action.

They were looking for Potter, but feeding on Draco was just as good a frenzy.

“Mister Malfoy, what have you been doing since the war?”

“We’ve been getting reports your father is sick. Are you here for him?”

“So you still have affiliations with the Dark Arts?”

“Did you really hack off your Dark Mark?”

Questions came at him like bullets, the photographs like flash-bangs. They were too close, everyone was jostling him, and he couldn’t move. He needed to get out. He needed to find Harry. His throat was constricting, his vision tunneling, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Everyone was yelling, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. 

He wasn’t prepared for this. He didn’t have the patience for this.

_Harry._

He needed to find Harry.

One reporter, a man with limp blonde hair, got much too into Draco’s face.

“What do you have to say about life as a Death Eater?” he asked, spittle flying into Draco’s face, a microphone shoved up at his mouth and the man’s fetid breath in his ear.

Draco lurched back, shoved the microphone out of the way, and did the only thing that came naturally with his adrenaline soaring high and panic pulsing through his veins.

He punched him.

The reporter reeled back dramatically, dropping his mic and his camera as he grabbed at his nose with a howl. Everyone, at that moment, paused in shock—brute, physical violence was so foreign in the wizarding world, it gave them all pause. And Draco used it to finally push through to the warded entrance of the hospital.

He didn’t care what kind of story they’d publish tomorrow.

“I’m here to see Harry Potter, please,” he told the receptionist, probably looking more than a little crazed. “Now.”

 

_*_

 

It took all Draco had not to run through the hospital halls.

He did not expect to find Harry sitting up.

He certainly didn’t expect him to be awake.

“Draco,” Harry said warmly, looking up from a magazine about the Cannon’s latest season, concern written on his face. “Ron told me he took you into the DMLE—are you alright?”

“Wha—Why—“ Draco floundered. Harry didn’t look like he had a scratch on him, though with the blankets pulled up to his waist and the hospital gown covering the rest, he couldn’t be sure. Certainly he didn’t look like he’d just been sliced apart by the cutting curse. “What…?”

“Here, come here,” Harry said, gesturing to a chair near his bed. “Ron and Hermione just left. They met me right after I took a reviving draught.”

Harry must have seen the utter incomprehension Draco was struggling with and took his hand, trying to reassure him. “I just splinched myself. My partner and I went to question a few people on the case we were assigned, and things got out of hand. They were hiding our man, and in surprising them we accidentally uncovered him—their apartment was filled with anti-tracing charms, that’s how he’d been able to go unnoticed for so long. We got into a firefight. Michelle wasn’t wearing her robes like she was supposed to, and she got hurt badly. I tried to apparate us away, but there were wards on the building, so all I managed to do was muck up my leg so badly I couldn’t stand.”

Harry grimaced, trying not to concentrate on it too much. Whenever he did it began to throb anew. Luckily, the painkillers they’d given him were really doing what they were supposed to—and even more luckily, he’d charmed one of the healers into giving him a focusing potion so he could actually think, rather than just sit in a drugged haze.

Draco still looked like he needed some explanations. _Shell-shocked_ , thought Harry worriedly.

He continued, “Cavanaugh wasn’t interested in sticking around, though—he ran away right after. Good thinking giving that key to Ron, because they were able to find me with it. I’d had my mobile with me, but it got smashed in the firefight, so it was just a shiny, expensive brick after that.”

“Splinched,” Draco said faintly, his fist curling around the mobile in his pocket.

“Mm-hmm,” Harry agreed gently. “They put me in emergency surgery. I’ll have a bit more hardware in me than usual, and won’t be able to get around very well for the next few weeks, but the good doctor’s given me a bunch of prescription potions to take, so after that I should be good as new in no time.”

Draco nodded slowly, setting the mobile down with a deep breath and wrapping Harry’s hand in both of his own, pressing it to his mouth in an almost-kiss. “Splinched,” he repeated, even more softly than before.

He stared at the white blanket that Harry was under and tried to overcome the waves of emotion that kept tugging him back and forth.

“Hey,” Harry said, pulling his hand out of his grasp and cupping Draco’s cheek instead. “Are you alright?”

Harry didn’t like that distant, blank expression Draco had on again, the one he’d put on before he started crying. _God_ , Harry hated when he cried, so quietly he was almost silent, rocking and shaking with the force of it, trying to hold them back, his eyes screwed shut and his hands balled in fists and fighting the whole time. It had hurt to watch him, hurt to hold him and know he couldn’t do anything to make it better. It made him want to keep him and never let go and never let anything bad touch him, _ever_ again.

Draco’s breathing had become labored without realizing it. “I thought—“ he started, the lump in his throat strangling his voice. He balled his empty hands into fists and pressed them into his forehead, his elbows on his knees in the stance Harry knew by now he took when he was deeply troubled. “I—“

“It’s okay,” Harry said, running a hand through Draco’s hair—and even if it wasn’t, in that moment, he would have said anything to get him to stop shaking. “I’m alright, Draco, it’s okay.”

One hand covering his mouth, Draco closed his eyes until he felt more confident in his ability to speak. “I heard it was—Snape’s curse.”

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes widened as the implications hit him. “ _Oh_. Oh, Draco no, I—Michelle got hit, not me. She’s still getting stitched up, but the Healers say she’ll be fine.”

Draco was still shaking, and Harry didn’t know what to do. Moving on instinct, he swung his legs off the bed, wincing as the blanket dragged across his bad one through the bandages, and reached to wrap his arms around Draco.

“No,” Draco snapped fiercely, his voice uncharacteristically thick. “Get back in bed. You idiot.”  He held the blanket as Harry reluctantly did what he was told, Draco shooing him the whole way. “You’re injured, you didn’t tell anyone where you were going, you _stupid…”_

“I’m alright,” Harry protested, noting the red flush on Draco’s cheeks and the unnatural shine of unshed tears in his eyes.

“ _No_ , you’re _not_ , you’re in a goddamned hospital,” he spat angrily, throwing himself back down onto the chair. He refused to look at him, preferring to stare at the ground, but he grabbed Harry’s hand in his own and held it tightly. “ _Idiot_.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t like Draco lashing out at him like this, but he knew at least on some level he deserved it. “I’m sorry I worried you,” he apologized.

Draco pursed his lips and squeezed Harry’s hand tighter, making him wince. “I hate you,” Draco whispered unsteadily, just like he had that night.

But, of course, he didn’t hate him.

He didn’t think he ever had.

 _I might love you_ , Harry realized as he watched Draco struggle, a knife twisting in his chest. It took his breath away for a moment.  _I could love you, someday_.

But, of course, he couldn’t say that.

He hoped one day he could.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated instead, hoping it was enough, knowing it wouldn’t be.

Draco scowled and shook his head. He moved from looking to the ground to staring at the ceiling, roughly wiping away a tear that had made a bid for freedom partway down his cheek and blinking away the rest of them.

He sat like that until his breathing was under control again, until the lump in his throat had dissolved.

“Come here,” Harry said, biting his lip against the barrage of sticky sweet things he wanted to say to make it better, knowing if he said any of them that Draco would just get offended instead. Gently tugging his hand out of Draco’s grasp, Harry cradled his head with both his hands and pulled him towards him.

It was a soft kiss, one that Draco returned immediately. Harry kissed him slowly, once, twice, three times.

“I’m alright,” Harry said, brushing errant blonde strands away from Draco’s face. _Don’t cry_ , he thought. _I think I might love you, please don’t cry._

Draco mumbled, “It was the curse that shook me the most.”

“I know,” he replied, a tightness in his chest. “I know, I’m sorry.”

Draco nodded again, leaning back and taking Harry’s hand once more. The silence was long, and joined them as much as it separated them.

“Back in sixth year…” Harry said quietly, eventually, still concernedly scrutinizing Draco. “I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know what it did—I should’ve apologized, but…I was ashamed, and....”

Draco shook his head. “It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

Harry’s eyebrows drew downwards. “I should have apologized though. You deserved that much, at least. But I…I couldn’t do it.”

“If you had tried, I probably would have tried to curse you again,” Draco sighed. _I didn’t want an apology_ , he thought tiredly. _I wanted a way out._ “I did use an Unforgivable.”

Harry rubbed his thumb over Draco’s knuckles, rough from scar tissue. “It wouldn’t have worked, though.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

‘You have to mean it, when you cast one of those. I don’t think you could have done it. Not to me.”

“That’s a lot of confidence, Harry,” he said, gentler than Harry expected.

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe not.”

“I was a different person then.”

“We all were.”

Eventually Draco nodded thoughtfully, bringing Harry’s hand back to his lips. “I suppose,” he conceded.

He had dark crescents under his eyes, the usually bright gray of them faded and weary, unable to focus for more than a few seconds.

 “How long did they have you at the DMLE?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. “A while.”

Harry bit at his bottom lip. He was sure that was partly to blame for Draco’s pallor and exhaustion, his wayward hair that Harry only ever saw mussed after a fight or with Teddy. “You should rest, too.”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I’ll _stay_.”

Harry nodded reluctantly and pressed the button for the Healer. She arrived within seconds. There were perks to being the Chosen One, after all.

“How long until I can leave?” Harry asked her. “Now that the surgery is over, I mean.”

“We still have to look over your records, but you should be good to go in about an hour or two.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed. “Thank you.”

An hour or two. He could handle that. He hoped Draco could, too.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! Only a few more to go - one chapter and maybe one epilogue, I'm still trying to figure that one out. Enjoy! <3

21.

 

In terms of getting Draco to stick around, Harry thought maybe he should have tried getting hurt sooner.

Not something of this caliber, obviously—he knew he was going to have nightmares about this, Michelle’s pale, bloodless face, her hair waving ghostlike in the air as the other Aurors placed a featherweight charm on her and gently lifted her bleeding form from on top of Harry’s lap and outside of the anti-apparition wards. She looked as close to a ghost as he’d seen anyone in a long time. And the pain of getting splinched had thrown him for a new one. He hadn’t experienced pain that debilitating in quite a while, even if it had come with an adrenaline rush that left him soaring high and made him think a bit more closely on why Draco fought.

It would have to be something mild then, certainly, but dramatic, and still dignified. He wasn’t sure what that would look like.

Immediately upon being released from the hospital, they’d gone back to Harry’s flat—he’d taken some convincing to try apparating so soon, but he’d gritted his teeth and done it, because better to get it over with then than let the fear fester.

Harry was still in crutches, and would be for the next few days as the wound set itself, so for a while he couldn’t do much. He hated it, but Draco’s presence helped quell the frustrated, restless feeling he had, as well as his intense dislike of being dependant on anyone else who wasn’t Ron or Hermione. Not that they hadn’t visited and made sure he was set up well—they had, every single day, for hours. But they both had jobs and a child who wouldn’t put off his needs for anyone.

And Draco, despite having both classes and a job, somehow managed to stay with Harry most of the time. 

He cooked, admittedly simple food—“I can’t cook anything else, so you get breakfast, or soup, or takeaway. Those are your three options.”—made a nuisance of himself in the bathroom—“What do you mean you have a water bill? Do you expect me to walk around _filthy_?” “There’s a difference between being clean and standing under the shower for _forty-five minutes_ , Draco.”—and generally just faffed around Harry, making tea, reading his textbooks or studying.

In this particular moment, they were sitting on the couch together, Harry’s injured leg stretched out across Draco’s lap and a blanket strewn over them haphazardly. Harry was flipping through channels on the telly with the sound turned off because the noise startled Draco, though he vigorously denied it when Harry brought it up, and anyway, he was trying to study. The book he was reading so closely that it was nearly touching his nose was some sort of in-depth record entirely devoted to the human nervous system, it’s functions within the human body, and what treatments could be done for certain ailments on it. It seemed horrendously boring to Harry, but Draco was immersed in it, so much so he’d caved and put on his reading glasses (Draco was terribly embarrassed of his reading glasses—he could just never get the vision charms right, and he was too lazy and not wealthy enough anymore to go to a specialist for them).

Harry only wished Draco talked more. The night Harry had gotten out of the hospital, Draco had been terse and curt, speaking only when spoken to and hovering with a deep scowl lining his features. Harry had told him to go back to his flat and get some rest, but he’d protested firmly in a voice he had to have learned from Narcissa, because Harry couldn’t even consider arguing with him after that. Harry had set up on the bed, and despite his cajoling, Draco had refused to cuddle with him.

“You’re injured,” he protested.

“Only my left leg,” Harry coaxed him. “I’ll move it out of the way. Touching is good for the healing process. It helps psychologically. I read that somewhere.”

“Well, find someone else, then,” Draco snapped irascibly.

Harry’s head was still feeling fuzzy and his thoughts were thick and muddled. The softness of the blankets was pulling him in, but he still managed to argue, “I’d rather have you.”

Draco’s expression softened at that a fraction, but the frown was still there, as was the deep line between his eyebrows. “Go to sleep, Harry.”

So Harry did. And for a bit, Draco watched over him.

He looked much more relaxed in sleep than he ever did awake. The tension in his jaw released, his glasses off and his eyes shut lightly—his face took on a boyish quality that never existed during his waking hours.

 _Stupid idiot_ , Draco thought, at last feeling like he could breathe again as relief finally crashed over him. Harry was alright. He was right there, solid and alive, in his own apartment and not in a hospital, and he would be fine. He would be fine.

Draco gently brushed his fringe out of his eyes, taking care not to wake him. Harry’s breath tickled the back of his hand lightly, and Draco was overcome with fondness, though it was still dampened with concern, sadness and frustration. Getting this close to someone was dangerous, but here he was, attached to the one person he knew who seemed to have the least amount of regard for his own life.

 _Stupid_ , Draco thought again, adjusting Harry's blankets for him and then walking out of the room, leaving the door open just a crack behind him.

Walking to the living room, Draco sat down on the couch intending to do a bit of reading before he slept, but exhausted as he was, he couldn’t even remember his head hitting the pillow before he was asleep.

 

_*_

 

Over the next few days, Draco still didn’t talk much. But he stayed, despite the exponentially growing stack of readings and homework he had.

Harry had worried that first day when Draco was full of harsh words and precise movements that they had taken many steps back, that he would have to work his way back up to having that closeness with Draco that they’d so briefly shared. But once he had proven that he was not, in fact, breakable—despite what the crutches might have indicated—Harry was happy to see Draco’s cold demeanor tentatively thawing.

Sometimes it was as simple as sitting together and letting Harry wrap an arm around him. Sometimes it was twining their fingers together and pressing the back of Harry’s hand to his lips as he had in the hospital, not quite a kiss but just as important, just holding him there.

Sometimes, to Harry’s immense delight, he would even hug him first, his arms wrapped around him tightly, head buried in his neck. It gave Harry this tight feeling of happiness in his chest, and made him want to kiss every inch of Draco’s face, revere every inch of exposed skin.

It was difficult for Draco, Harry knew. But it seemed to be less so now than it was before.

He wanted Draco to want to be close to him because he truly _wanted_ to, not because he was apprehensive, or anxious, or traumatized. And the difference troubled him.

“I’m sorry they made you go to the Ministry,” he said on the second night, sitting next to Draco, who was leaning against him with his eyes closed and an arm thrown over his face, a book open in his lap and a highlighter fallen on the floor.

Draco grunted in response.

“I don’t know if you’ve been there since the trials, but—they shouldn’t have made you go, regardless. I’ll talk to Ron.”

“S’allright,” Draco muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.” Though he was happy that Ron had volunteered to collect Draco and not a different Auror: Under the circumstances, he’d treated him relatively well, if a little rudely (which was perhaps to be expected of the two of then). He didn’t know what the others may have done, especially if Draco was irascible, which he usually was even on his good days, and wouldn’t have trusted anyone else.

“I don’t know how to make this up to you,” Harry said.

“You don’t need to make it up.”

“You were worried.”

“I’ve worried you before, too, Scarhead.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorted. “You did. And then I just about ripped a man’s head off with that _Obliviate_ , and got into a screaming match so loud it could be heard in China.”

“It’s your job,” Draco muttered, a bit louder and with more attitude. “It’s not like I can ask you to stop.”

“No,” Harry said. “But you can still be upset by it.”

Draco turned to face him, scowling. “Do you want me to yell at you?”

“Not particularly,” Harry replied, biting his cheek. “Though if _you_ want to I won’t stop you.”

“I don’t want to yell at you,” Draco said moodily.

“Okay. What do you want to do?”

 _He’s going to talk me to death,_ Draco thought, exasperated. “I’m tired,” he said in a tone approaching sulky. “I want to sit here, and lean against you, and close my eyes and rest, Harry.”

“We can do that,” Harry relented. If Draco didn’t want to talk about something, Harry knew better than to press him in that moment.

Draco curled against Harry’s side and shut his eyes again, this time discarding the book to the floor.

Within minutes, he was asleep.

Harry shifted him gently so his arm wouldn’t lose circulation. Even learning to ride Sirius’ old motorbike hadn’t been as hard as trying to get Draco to open up, and he’d crashed it three times, once into someone’s attic.

 _He’s so worth it, though_. Harry felt a rush of warmth just from listening to him breathe—How many other people had Draco trusted enough to sleep next to like this, without pretext or ulterior motive? Probably not many, he figured. Not that that in itself was something to get competitive or prideful about, but he was a little bit of both, anyway.

Asleep, Draco didn’t put up the glamour he usually did. Harry figured by now it must have been habitual. But it fell away as he relaxed, and Harry could see now the evidence of his fights. The small scar, slicing through his eyebrow. The thin one on his cheek, straight across the bone. One that was just barely visible on the thin skin of his bottom lip.

Harry hoped he was done fighting. He hoped that last altercation had turned him off from it, for fear or self-preservation or something else, Harry didn’t well care as long as he never got hit again.

He knew Draco would talk to him, eventually. It would just have to be on his own terms. And if talking meant having a conversation or having a screaming fit, or somewhere in between, Harry was ready for it.

For this ridiculous, brilliant, lovely man full of contradictions, Harry would be ready for anything.

 

_*_

 

Draco started leaving to go to class and to go to work, because he didn’t feel comfortable with making excuses not to go. It meant that most of his mornings and early afternoons were spent together, but his evenings were generally spent in class with the yawning masses who had just rolled out of bed (Draco’s earliest class, at 10am, meant he had to leave Harry’s flat at around three in the afternoon, a change he quite liked). All things considered, it would have been easier just to move back out to his apartment in America. But wanted to stay, and so he never brought up moving, and Harry never did either.

Harry was a little apprehensive—he wasn’t sure if this would cause Draco to start distancing himself again, if Draco would start to move out and they’d have to start relying on summoning charms and on-sided text messaging again. But Harry let him go, though the silence of the flat made him feel more claustrophobic than ever, and more impatient. His leg was almost but not quite better, and so when he didn’t feel like apparating around, he’d hop, or rather more like launch himself one-legged around the room until he got what he needed.

Andromeda and Teddy had come to visit, which was nice. Teddy hadn’t seen much of him since his disappearance—neither of them had wanted to worry him, and so he was kept largely out of the loop.

“When can you walk again?” Teddy asked, staring at his injured leg in wonder and confusion.

“In a few days,” Harry said. “ _Don’t_ touch it,” he added, spotting one small hand heading towards the bandages.

“Sorry,” Teddy said in a small voice, his hair turning back to a more neutral brown from the fire-hydrant red it had been as he withdrew his hand.

 “Hey, it’s alright,” Harry replied. “Have you and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione been having a good time together?”

“Yeah!” Teddy exclaimed, brightening instantly. “But Hugo is too loud.”

“He’s a baby, Teddy. Crying is what babies do.”

“It’s annoying.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, it can be.”

“Is Draco here too?”

“He is, usually,” Harry said, glancing at the clock. “I thought he’d be home in time for supper, but…I suppose he got held up.” Harry _tsk_ d, wishing he hadn’t broken his mobile. It would have been nice to be able to text him. It was nearly seven, and Harry figured he usually showed up around now, but he didn’t want to keep Teddy waiting, and Andromeda had already made most all of the food.

“I suppose we should eat,” Harry sighed. “I’ll fix him a plate for when he’s back.”

 

_*_

 

Harry tossed and turned trying to get to sleep. When he did, it was fitful and exhausting. He kept seeing Sectumsempra over and over again—if it wasn’t Michelle, it was Draco lying on the tile floor. He hadn’t realized how comforting it was falling asleep next to Draco on the couch until he was gone.

 _He wouldn’t be doing anything reckless_ , he tried to convince himself. _Not when I can’t get to him_. Draco didn’t have his key anymore, being still in lockdown at the DMLE, and Harry didn’t have his phone anymore. And even if there was a simple way to contact each other, Harry couldn’t be much help to him because he could hardly even stand on his own.

 _He’s fine. He just went to his flat and forgot to tell me. It’s not that late in America_. Casting a _Tempus_ , Harry figured it was around ten or eleven at night there. _He probably just fell asleep, and is at his flat right now, safe and sound_.

Harry sighed. No amount of convincing would stop him from worrying.

He sat up and gathered his crutches from the side of the bed, figuring that if he was going to be awake, he might as well make himself a pot of tea.

 

_*_

 

Draco was not at his flat.

Draco was wearing a thick layer of glamour. His hair was dark and muddy, the color of dishwater. His skin was tanner, a bit pockmarked in some places, a scar across the side of his chin. His eyes were a nondescript, washed-out blue.

In short, he’d worked very hard to look nothing like himself. There was a reason for that.

He was at the ring, but he wasn’t there to fight.

This time he was just there to watch.

He hadn’t stepped out of the fight and seen what it was like from a distance in a long, long time.  

Two people, circling. Every fiber of their being focused on their opponent. The tension, the wait. And then, the clash.

The brutal sound of skin hitting skin was one he’d gotten used to, had learned not to listen to. But he tried, this time, even if he’d rather not.

They broke apart and circled again. Both were bloody, both were angry.

Around and around, they tracked each other.

It never mattered who it was.

They would always fight.

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Did all his fights look this pointless?

Two complete strangers with no vendetta or personal investment, fueled simply by anger or desperation, just scrabbling to survive. That’s what he saw, because he saw himself.

The crowd roared. Draco let himself be jostled to and fro, opening his eyes but staring at the light above the ring until his vision was peppered with black and white spots.

 _If I keep fighting, I always will_ , he thought. And at one point that may have been a comfort, his ability to endure. He had read a quote somewhere, “I am because I fight”. It was during the war, and it had stuck with him. Impacted him in ways he was sure the author hadn’t intended.

He was still angry. He was still sad. And some part of him, a large part of him, wanted to join the rat race in there anyway, wanted to fight now and forever until he never could again.

But was this really the answer? This cyclical violence? Did they only exist so the weak could get beaten?

He was tired, now. And he thought that maybe being and being in an active, not a passive way could be more about fighting. It would never be easy, but it didn’t have to be grueling.

But he would have to do something very, very difficult—and that was to let someone in. Something that had been proven again and again to be too risky an endeavor to undertake. But maybe it was worth it. Maybe eventually.

He could let someone in eventually, even if it wasn’t just then, even if it wasn’t for a very, very long time.

Harry said he would stay.

Draco thought about him, thought about Teddy and Andromeda and Narcissa. They would stay. He wouldn’t have to struggle to keep them with him. But he would have to struggle to let himself be with them.

So, the question then became.

Would he?

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One epilogue to go!

22.

 

Draco apparated into Harry’s living room, swiping a hand through his fringe and rubbing his bleary, gritty eyes. He needed to rest, but stopped short when he caught sight of Harry in the kitchen.

“What are you doing up?” he managed, walking in to join him, slumping into the seat next to him.

“Tea?” Harry asked. Draco shook his head.

Harry shrugged and took a sip. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. Draco didn’t ask why, but Harry explained anyway. “I was worried.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“It’s not that I need to,” Harry said. “It’s just that I do. Like we’ve been over before. Will you tell me where you went?”

“You won’t like the answer,” Draco said slowly, looking at him from the side warily.

“I figured I wouldn’t.” Harry ran his hands through his hair. “Draco…”

Draco licked his lips. “I was under glamour.”

“Thank Merlin for small miracles,” he heard Harry mutter.

“…I’ll make you no promises,” he said to Harry’s still downturned head. “But I’m trying not to go.”

Harry looked up warily. “What caused that decision?”

“I got tired of it,” he admitted sadly. “I got tired of hurting people and getting hurt. I know…” he scoffed, shaking his head. “I know that’s not the noble answer you want, but it’s what’s there.”

“Jesus, Draco,” Harry said, exhaling. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I don’t care if it’s noble or not. I care that you’re not being beaten to death.”

A small smirk crept up on Draco’s lips. “That’s a plus.”

They sat in silence for a while longer.

Harry didn’t want any tension or unhappiness. He just wanted to sleep and he wanted to know Draco was safe, preferably at the same time.“Come to bed?” Harry asked eventually.

Draco’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed.  Harry was just asking for sleep, wasn’t he?

He wanted to go further, wished they could take their relationship faster. But to do so would be too much, and then he wouldn’t be able to keep him. Harry had to know that.

 “Sleeping on that couch must hurt your neck as much as it does mine,” Harry clarified. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.” _But if you_ do _, I wouldn’t be opposed._

Draco measured him, chewing his lip. “Alright.”

Harry gave him a warm smile and tired eyes, gulped the rest of his lukewarm tea and got ready to go back to bed.

Draco changed out of his day clothes and perched on the side of the bed, unsure what to do. Harry unfolded the blanket and guided him down and into his arms with a strong but gentle hand on his shoulder—which, astonishingly, Draco allowed. Once lying down, he tried to turn away so that they were laying back to front, but Harry kept him close.

“I like looking at you,” he mumbled, pressing his lips to his forehead. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Stop,” Draco protested gruffly, but stayed where he was, shifting closer to rest his forehead on Harry’s shoulder and hiding his face. Harry smiled, just able to see the blush creeping across Draco’s cheeks and the light scowl cross his features, embarrassed by the compliment.

Compared to the fidgeting worry and nightmares that made Harry’s sleep elusive and frustrating, having Draco solid in his arms was absolute heaven. He buried his face in Draco’s neck, nuzzling into the soft skin there and breathing deeply. Draco’s fingers carded through his hair gently.

He knew it was selfish, but he wanted him there forever. He wanted to fall asleep like this for the rest of his life.

And he could only hope that Draco agreed.

 

_*_

 

It was raining outside, pattering onto the windowpanes. A lazy morning together. Draco had been catching up on his reading, and Harry had been flipping through the Prophet idly, disinterested or disgusted mostly at the abhorrent quality and lack of journalistic integrity in most of the pieces. He wondered why he even bothered anymore, until he found the unflattering article on Draco.

 He would have thrown it into the trash, disgusted by the obvious bias in the headline, but watching Draco in the little moving picture sock that obnoxious reporter was really very funny. He’d tried to suppress the urge to laugh, knowing that the article would probably upset Draco, and in the end he crumpled it up and added it as kindling to the lit fireplace anyway.

His legs were resting in Draco’s lap, his back on the armrest. Harry considered him for a while, the bubbly mirth slowly draining out of him and replaced by something steadier and more solid, the room silent but for the noises of the rain, the fire, and the rustle of turning pages. “Can I ask you something, Draco?”

“That depends on what it is,” he answered with a smile.

“How do you feel about me? What do you want?”

Draco blinked and sighed, dismayed, resting the book open on his knee and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That’s one of the things you can’t ask.”

“We both know how I feel. I still haven’t changed my mind. But I want you to be comfortable. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Draco scoffed, a reluctant, that sly smile twisting his mouth again. “Anything?”

Harry shrugged, his grin sincere. “I trust you.”

Draco gave him an incredulous look and rolled his eyes even as the small smile was still on his face, moving to pick up the book again.

Harry nudged his hand with his knee and scooted into a more upright position, moving his legs off of Draco’s lap so they were sitting side by side. “You still haven’t answered.”

“Because I can’t.”

“You can’t, or you don’t know?”

“…The latter.”

“If I start smaller,” Harry amended, “And ask why you seem more comfortable spending time together—not that I have any sort of problem with it, of course—would that be better?”

“That’s a question, Scarhead.”

“I know.”

Draco nodded and swallowed. He seemed to come to a decision about something. “You’re worrying because you got hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t think that I’m here out of pity,” he said, more gently than Harry expected. “I’m not. I thought you were dead, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Snape’s Curse.”

“I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” Draco said. “It wasn’t your fault, besides not bringing backup or telling anyone where the _hell_ you were going. And I’m not done.”

“Alright,” Harry said, a little cowed.

“I realized…I restricted myself too much, because I was afraid.” He thought about the mobile, and what dire circumstances had finally compelled him to use it. “I want to be better than that.”

“And cuddling is a good way to do that?”

“Malfoy’s don’t _cuddle_ ,” Draco sniffed, lips twitching upwards. But more seriously he added, “This,” he lightly tapped Harry’s good shin, “being close, it helps reassure me. That you’re here, and not…” he took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

 Harry bit his lip.

“Don’t apologize,” Draco warned.

“I wasn’t going to,” Harry replied. He had intended to bite it back instead, which is exactly what he had done.

“Alright.”

Harry gathered up some courage. “Since you can’t answer, could I tell you something I want, then?”

“Will saying no stop you?” Draco asked wryly.

Harry chuckled. “It might,” he said. “If you meant it.”

 _I sort of mean it_ , Draco thought, but said “Go on, then” anyway.

“I want to be with you,” Harry said. “Or, if not _with_ you, to spend time with you. I like you. I think you’re smart and funny and engaging and gorgeous, and I get excited about being around you. You know how I feel, and I don’t want to pressure you because this is so much already, and I’m thankful to have it.”

Draco _tsk_ d his disapproval. “Harry…”

 “I’ll stay,” Harry continued resolutely. “Until you tell me to leave. Or I’ll wait until you’re ready to give me the yes I was looking for at the park, that day.”

“I’ve told you to leave before.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Have you meant it?”

Draco looked away and shook his head, sucking his teeth.

Harry nodded. “Alright then.”

“I won’t be able to give you everything you want,” Draco said, his lips pursed and eyebrows drawn in a scowl. “I won’t be able to give you everything you deserve. And then you won’t be happy anymore.”

“I think I can decide for myself what makes me happy fairly well. It’s not about what anyone may or may not deserve, Draco—I want _you_. I can wait as long as you need.”

“What if it never comes?”

“You’re worth it anyway,” Harry said with conviction, desperately wanting to hold him, to feel him solid in his arms and just make sure he would stay jut that little bit longer. “I’m not leaving.”

Draco sighed, dog-earing his page and dropping the book beside him. It was no use to argue with Harry on his answer, but he had to add, “I’ll try to push you away. You know I will. I already have so many times—I don’t know why you still want to be here.”

“I do,” Harry said, conviction in his voice. Draco saw that Savior confidence Harry projected in every tone, every movement. “It’s you. And so nothing’s going to get rid of me until you look me in the eye and tell me, when you’re calm and we’re not fighting, that you never want to see me again.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t want that.”

“Good.”

He licked his lips and glanced back up at him, dropping his gaze immediately. “I don’t hate you,” he said quietly, his voice a little rough. “I never did.”

Harry felt something warm in his chest, and that was when he gathered him in his arms like he’d wanted to this entire conversation. “I know,” he said into his hair. “I know you don’t.”

Draco hugged him back, despite the nervous wriggling feeling in his stomach. It was uncomfortable side by side, so he let Harry gently pull him into his lap.

“I’m not hurting you?” Draco asked apprehensively as he let himself be moved, holding himself so he wouldn’t put pressure on Harry’s bad leg.

“Not at all.”

He nodded, his arms around Harry’s neck, knees resting on either side of his hips, his feet tucked under him. He pressed his temple to Harry’s head, feeling his thick, coarse hair through his fingers. Harry’s strong, solid arms were around him, a hand running up and down his spine.

“I’m fucking terrified,” he admitted reluctantly, only allowing the words to escape because he was holding Harry in a way that neither of them could look at each other.

The Chosen One, the sentimental fool that he was, obviously had a different idea, pulling back and holding Draco by the shoulders just enough that he could look him in the eye. “Of what?”

Draco let out a small, self-deprecating laugh, brushing a stray lock of Harry’s back behind his ear, though he knew it would escape. “You, idiot Scarhead.”

What?” he asked, cold worry and confusion dripping down his chest and pooling in his stomach. Had all this business traumatized Draco again from sixth year, maybe? Had he hurt him somehow? “Draco, I—”

“Stop over-thinking it,” Draco interrupted, his fingers still in Harry’s hair. “You haven’t let me finish.”

“You can’t just _say_ that though,” Harry protested, still confused. “Did I—”

“You make me feel things,” Draco said, tugging on his hair and pressing their foreheads together. “I’ve tried so hard for so long not to feel anything, and it was working so well, too, until you bumbled in and ruined everything.” He let out another one of those laughs, so soft it was hardly more than a _huff_ of air. “You don’t even know what you did, you’re just _you_. And now I feel _everything_ and I don’t have any control over of it, and it scares the shit out of me. What you make me feel scares the shit out of me.”

Harry swallowed. “That’s…” he puffed a little laugh, more relieved than he cared to admit. “That’s about the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“You’ll never hear it again,” Draco promised.

“Duly noted,” Harry grinned, feeling much lighter than he had in a long time. “I’ll cherish the memory.” He leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth.

Draco pulled back after a few seconds. “I’m still not going to date you.”

“Not for a while, I know.”

“Yeah.”

Harry’s hands ran up and down his back and arms. “I get that you’re scared, that you don’t want to get too close. But…”

There was a question there, left unsaid in the empty air that Harry didn’t feel entitled to ask.

Draco looked at Harry’s eyes through lenses of his spectacles, smudged with the fingerprints he could never seem to fully clean off. Draco let Harry’s hair run through his fingers and felt his body, warm and solid beneath him. Felt his breathing, steady and reassuring against his chest.

“Yeah,” Draco smiled, speaking softly against his lips as he kissed him.

 

“I’ll fight for you.”

 

 

 


	23. Epilogue

_Epilogue_.

 

 

Harry had been away for six months, and it was driving both of them insane.

Sometimes Harry got a tune stuck in his head and whistled it throughout the day, only to remember as he was about to go to sleep that it was something he’d heard Draco play on the piano. He would do that sometimes, when Harry’s nightmares were bad or his insomnia was acting up and he couldn’t sleep, playing until Harry drifted off on the couch next to the piano with the notes drifting through the air.

Sometimes—usually when Dawlish cooked their meals—it would be so horrendously bad he’d have to laugh, because it reminded him of all Draco’s terrible attempts at cooking. He was usually able to tell when to order takeout by how smoky the flat smelled on Draco’s nights to cook.

He missed feeling Draco’s fingers card through his hair softly at night, his breath light on his neck, their legs intertwined beneath the covers. He could be sweet, really, surprisingly sweet, after Harry jumped through all his hoops and passed all his tests and proved he wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t judge. And Harry loved it, because he knew that he was the only one who got to be with Draco without the armor, to see him happy in that warm and buzzing way.

He went over their conversations in his head, on quiet days. He remembered Draco speaking to him softly as they were falling asleep, sometimes in French when Harry asked, sometimes not. Often, when Draco was building up to telling him something important, he'd say it in French for a few days beforehand to get himself accustomed, even if Harry couldn't understand a word he was saying. He loved listening, though, the way the vowels would flow together and how the consonants slipped off his tongue - as he'd thought, it was beautiful when he wasn't yelling, and he found the sound unbearably sexy. 

He had begun calling Draco by pet names a while ago now—when he’d started, Draco had gotten terribly embarrassed and belligerent, responding in monosyllabic grunts or not responding at all. But he didn’t get mad, and that’s how Harry knew that he didn’t mind, not really, and Harry liked using them.

The only term of endearment Harry received was the ever-popular “Scarhead”, said softly, usually when Draco was worried or chastising him. “The Chosen One” was the name Draco used when he was sarcastic or when Harry was getting on his nerves, in arguments and in fights. “My Hero” had started ironically, with a lot of dramatic eye-rolling, but the longer they stayed together, the more he seemed to use it, and the more sincere it became. Harry had always hated whenever anyone else called him that—he’d been brave, yes. But they had all been heroes and villains in the war.

But he let Draco call him that, he liked when Draco called him that, because Draco was special, and he was _so good_ , and for him Harry would be his best, would try his hardest, because Draco deserved it. If he was going to be a hero for anyone, he wanted it to be for him.

He would dream about him often. Sometimes it was innocent, benign, just a conversation or a walk in the park with Teddy, cooking meals or reading together, watching the way Draco’s lips moved or the way he quirked an eyebrow, the delighted shine in his expressive eyes or the way his hair caught the sunlight.

Sometimes it was less innocent. Sometimes he dreamt about Draco’s nails scratching down his back, the feel of him writhing in pleasure beneath him, the way his name fell from his lips, raspy and breathy. The way Draco looked at him through lowered lashes and heavy eyelids, biting his lip languidly, kissing him hard. The miles of smooth, pale skin, soft beneath his fingertips.

Harry got used to taking cold showers.

The worst were the nightmares. Sometimes he dreamt that he was too late at the ring, that he’d find Draco bloody and prone on the ground, twisted in an unnatural angle. Sometimes he watched him get shot in that alley, eyes wide in nearly comical surprise, falling with a thud. Sometimes he watched him die on the tile of the bathroom floor, red blood mixing with water. Those were the worst nights. Those were the nights that Ron shook him awake, the nights that the other Aurors put silencing spells around their beds. Those were the nights Harry clutched Draco’s letters in shaking hands and read them fervently in the weak light of a dimmed _Lumos_ , over and over, trying to shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.

They hadn’t been able to floo each other since the start of the mission, or even call, and so they had to resort back to owl messages. As the case got more tangled and the stakes higher, they couldn’t even risk the weekly post they were used to—Harry could only send Draco minute, one-sentence updates. Draco never knew where he was and never knew if he was safe enough at that moment to receive letters, and therefore never had the ability to write him back.

When they were able to write, Draco had always seemed so composed in his letters. It was as if he was writing to Pansy after a week rather than his boyfriend of five years sent away to fight—but Harry had learned to become skeptical of Draco’s cavalier façade, and could hear the worry in Draco’s writing, in the way it was more sincere and less barbed than it otherwise would have been. And no matter how cross he seemed in his letters, he would always sign off, religiously, “I miss you. Come home soon. Stay safe. Je t'aime. -D” As though by writing his last few words in French, he could protect himself from giving it away. As if Harry didn't know what he meant, even though they both did. 

Harry was ridiculously proud of Draco. Draco had worked hard to get his grades up towards the end of undergrad, and though they hadn’t been of the same extremely impressive caliber as those in his years at Hogwarts, they were respectable enough. He’d worked for a few years as a general healer to build his reputation and his savings, and then he began training for a potion’s mastery, transferring to the lab and working with a specialist in poisons. It had been hard work, but Draco was dedicated, and really, honestly cared about what he was doing.

As the newest research assistant in the Potion’s lab, he was given all the hours no one wanted to work, which suited their needs fine. He worked from midnight to noon four days a week, so he left the apartment early in the morning and came back early in the evening. At least, that had been his schedule when Harry had first been sent away. But it had been a long time.

Harry missed him _so much_. So when Robards had switched him off the case after a big bust, Harry had readily and eagerly agreed.

Immediately upon exiting the Minsitry, he apparated directly to their flat. He hoped Draco was home, because he was so full of bubbling excitement he didn’t know what he would do next if he was disappointed. He dropped his bag with a loud _thud_ on the carpeted floor of the living room, looking around in search of Draco.

He found him asleep in their bedroom, turned on his side and hugging a pillow to his chest. His hair, longer now than it had been when Harry left, was fanned out around his head, his eyes closed lightly and his eyelashes dusting his cheeks. Harry felt as though he would burst with happiness. _Christ, he’s still so beautiful._

“Draco,” he said softly, sitting onto the bed next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, brushing his hair back, stroking his cheek, unable to believe that he was actually _here_ again and wanting to do everything and not knowing what to do first. “Draco, love, sweetheart. Wake up.”

Draco wrinkled his nose a bit and blinked blearily. “Nmm…”

“Draco, honey.”

His sleepy eyes fluttered open. “Harry?” he asked, his voice gravelly from sleep but his movements fast once he realized who was there. “Harry!”

Draco flung his arms around him with such force it nearly knocked them over. He pulled Harry in close and crushed them together so tightly Harry could barely breathe, but he was laughing nonetheless.

“I missed you so much,” Draco said, his hands clutching the fabric of Harry’s robes. He withdrew only enough to kiss him hard, a hand on Harry’s cheek to steady them.

Harry was intoxicated by the taste of Draco’s lips. “I missed you too. _Merlin_ , I missed you too.”

“Never do that again,” Draco ordered, removing his glasses and setting them aside, peppering his face with light kisses. “Never. That was _terrible_ , Scarhead. God, I hated it. Six _fucking_ months I just sat here like an arsehole hoping you were alright.”  He thumbed a tear out of the corner of his eye, but others rolled down his cheeks regardless. His voice breaking, he said, “I’m so happy.”

 _I’m sorry_ , Harry thought, but he didn’t say it—he knew how useless Draco considered apologies.

Instead, Harry said, “I love you.”

Over the years, that had been enough.

He loved the way Draco’s expression softened now when he said it, his striking grey eyes becoming warm, the blush splashed across his cheeks, the self-conscious smile. But that had been a long time coming, and it had taken work from both of them.

The first time he’d said, it had scared Draco so much he wouldn’t listen. He’d protested, “You don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. Stop. Please stop. I can’t take it, Harry, just stop.”

Harry had argued. They’d both been so frustrated they were nearly in tears, and Draco had shattered Harry’s favorite mug against the wall. That had not been a good night.

But they’d gotten through it, like they’d gotten over others. They fought like they both knew they would. It wasn’t easy but it was worth it. And Harry had stayed, and he said it, and said it, and said it so many times Draco finally started to believe him. He said it every chance he could, every time he left for work and came back, every time Draco left the flat, every time the sunlight made Draco’s hair shine like a halo and every time Draco tried to make dinner and every time he brought him coffee at work and every time they had sex. It didn’t matter when—whenever it passed through Harry’s mind, he said it. He didn’t believe in holding back.

That was three years ago, now.

A year and a half ago, Harry finally heard it back. It had been said in a rough voice, so softly it could have been just a breath of air, turned away from him while they were in bed with Harry’s arms around him, pressing the back of Harry’s hand to his lips the way he did when he sought reassurance.

Draco didn’t need reassurance now, clinging to Harry as though he would never let go. Releasing one hand, he punched him in the shoulder, not exactly hard but not exactly gently, either. Once, twice, three, four, five—

“I hate you,” Draco said, really and truly crying. “God, I hate you. I missed you so much.”

Harry caught his fist in his hands, kissing the scars on his knuckles, the back of his hand, the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist, working his way up, kissing his shoulder, his neck, reveling in Draco’s scent, the feel of his skin under his lips. “Draco,” he said softly, reverently. “Draco, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath, burying his fingers in Harry’s hair and wiping his cheeks with his free hand, sniffling a bit. He snaked his free arm around him, pressing them even closer together.

And finally he said it again, the words Harry knew he felt, the words Harry knew still scared him because they were so powerful, the words he only said once in a great while. He said it softly, gently, with terrifying affection and utmost conviction. He said it, and Harry felt he would break apart from happiness. He said it and the world was put to right.

 

“I love you,” he said.

 

 

 

_End._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! This was really fun to write, thanks for everyone who reviewed!
> 
> Also, if you liked this story I highly recommend you go check out "The Art of Shadow Boxing" by TommyLane, it was a phenomenal read (one of my favorites) and features Draco as a boxer as well!


End file.
